


The Perfect Day

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-21 11:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2467214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was more terrified than he’d let on, but knew that d’Artagnan needed him to stay steady. Now that he was alone, his mind conjured unbidden the many stories he’d heard from those who’d survived the fevers in the past – if this was the start of another epidemic, no one was safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The skies were blue, with the occasional white, cottony cloud passing above them slowly, pushed by the soft breeze that made the warmth of the day tolerable. Earlier, they had passed by a lake who’s waters were so pristinely clear that d’Artagnan could see all the way to the bottom, before he dove in causing the dirt and silt at the bottom to be disturbed, as he swam lazily through the refreshing liquid. Porthos had laughed at his antics, sitting comfortably at the edge of the lake and watching his younger brother with amusement. It had taken the young man a bit of time and teasing, but eventually the older man had surrendered to d’Artagnan’s whining and joined him for a dip.

 

Their horses now ambled through a meadow, the carpet of green broken by intense shades of blues, pinks and purples representing the abundant wildflowers that grew here. On his horse, d’Artagnan sighed contentedly; seldom could he remember a time when he was this relaxed and at peace since becoming a Musketeer. It was true that the companionship he shared with his fellow Musketeers, especially his three closest friends, offered him a steadiness and constancy in the world that he hadn’t experienced since his father had been killed, but while the men offered their love and friendship freely and shared both times of entertainment and silence in equal comfort, a soldier’s life was still dangerous and they didn’t often have the luxury of letting down their guard.

 

Today was different and d’Artagnan thought it might actually be a perfect day, as he and Porthos walked their horses towards the estate of the Comte de Chartres who had requested that the King afford him the presence of two Musketeers to attend his annual festival. The Comte had a good reputation as a kind and fair man, one who was generous to those living on his lands, and he hosted this event as a way of celebrating the years’ hard work, which not only kept him and his household fed, but also ensured sufficient stockpiles to allow the families who lived in and around his estate to safely weather the many months of winter. Every year two Musketeers were afforded an invitation to partake in three days of good food and wine, enjoying the pleasures of sleeping in proper beds and having servants who would wait on their every need. It was an experience not often enjoyed by soldiers and, as such, Treville made sure to use the opportunity as a way of rewarding his men who had either endured a particularly difficult mission or needed time to recuperate from significant injury.

 

This year d’Artagnan and Porthos had been lucky enough to be selected in recognition of their recent defense of the King during a failed assassination attempt. They had been on duty at the palace when d’Artagnan had noticed a glint of something in the gardens where their Majesties were walking. Making eye contact with Porthos, he had silently communicated his belief that danger lay ahead, prompting the larger man to slip unobserved from their party and into the foliage to ferret out their attackers. d’Artagnan in the meantime had moved closer to the King and Queen, bringing with him four of his fellow Musketeers, effectively creating a perimeter that would be difficult to penetrate. When he heard a shout from the bushes on his left, he reacted without thinking and stepped immediately in front of the King, who was so startled by the act that he actually bumped into the man. There was no time for the King to question what was happening as a shot rang out, caught in d’Artagnan’s upper arm where it could not harm those he protected. The sound spurred d’Artagnan and the other Musketeers into action, tightening their circle further as they hurried their Majesties into the safety of a nearby alcove.

 

The excitement was short-lived and as d’Artagnan watched from his place in front of the King, Porthos emerged from the bushes, pistol in one hand and the attacker in his other, pulling the would-be assassin along by the collar of his shirt and vest. The King was of course shaken but also impressed with the intelligence and quick action of the two men, thus prompting the Captain to send them on this most coveted mission, if it could even be called a mission. d’Artagnan’s arm had healed well in the days since the attack, the ball having lodged in the muscle but missing the bone, and he now revelled in the thought of the three days of enjoyment that lay ahead of them.

 

The two men now traded looks, wide grins on their faces, as they approached the walled courtyard of the Comte’s grand home, already anticipating everything that the next three days would bring…of course, they never anticipated that anything would be anything less than perfect. 

* * *

The Musketeers had been to many nobles’ homes in the past, but even compared to some of the grandness they’d experienced, the Comte’s estate was still impressive. Tucked into one end of a beautiful valley, it was surrounded on three sides by a slow-moving river, which seemed to encircle the estate before diverting into the woods that sat at the back of the home. Inside the river’s perimeter, previous generations of the Comte’s family had built and rebuilt an imposing stone wall that was three feet deep and rose to the sky another 15 feet. A wide, sturdy bridge welcomed visitors safely across the river and deposited them at the gates of the estate, which could be closed quickly by two men using an ingenious pulley system that used leverage and gravity to push closed two massive wooden doors. The inside of the main courtyard was used by farmers and merchants alike, matching buyers with sellers and providing all manner of food, drink, cloth and many other goods and services, attending to the needs of everyone in the vicinity.

 

In preparation for the festival, the courtyard was now decorated with garlands of fresh flowers, strung from various points on the tall wall, and beautifully died linens in yellow, red and orange were draped from the high windows overlooking the square below. Various stands had been erected around the courtyard and would be filled the following day by a multitude of wares. At one far end of the courtyard, the men could see a platform being erected, no doubt for the following evening’s entertainment, which might include anything from musicians to actors, depending on the Comte’s tastes that night.

 

When Porthos and d’Artagnan crossed through the gates of the estate, the young man couldn’t help stopping and gaping, having never seen such a spectacle despite his service to the King. Porthos grinned at him, knowing that he too would normally be just as awestruck had he not been told what to expect by Aramis, who had enjoyed the Comte’s company three years prior. While normally a busy place, the courtyard was now nearly empty as preparations were being made for the extra visitors and guests who would be joining the Comte the following evening to celebrate another safe and successful year.

 

They were noticed right away by the stable boy, who rushed over to take their horses, and d’Artagnan grudgingly dismounted, still trying to comprehend everything he was seeing. Porthos clapped the young man on the back and nodded to a man approaching them, explaining, “I think that’s our welcome, now.”

Porthos was correct and the man approaching them was indeed there to welcome them and to present them to the Comte. The man bowed deeply and had a sincere smile on his face when he exclaimed, “You must be our most honored guests from the King’s Musketeers.” It was not a difficult deduction on the man’s part as both men wore their brightly colored blue cloaks and Musketeer pauldrons on their shoulders.

 

Porthos slightly inclined his head in acknowledgment of the man’s greeting. “Porthos and d’Artagnan,” he motioned to the other man, “at your service.”

 

“My name is Pinot, the Comte’s most humble servant, and I welcome you on his behalf,” the man bowed again as he welcomed them. “The Comte extends his apologies for not being here to meet you personally, however he has been unavoidably detained with estate business. In his stead, please allow me to show you to your rooms so that you might rest from your trip before tonight’s festivities.”

 

Not to be outdone by Porthos’ politeness, d’Artagnan replied, “It would be our pleasure.”

 

As Pinot bowed again before turning to lead them through the courtyard, the two Musketeers exchanged looks, both wondering at the excessive bowing that Pinot seemed to favour. Pinot weaved his way skillfully through the materials still littering the ground of the courtyard as the preparations continued, leading them up the steps to the doors of the Comte’s chateau. Inside, they climbed two floors up a grand staircase, where they were shown to adjacent rooms on the third floor.

 

Each room contained a large bed that sat centred against one wall, affording the fortunate occupant a view from floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the well-manicured gardens. Along one side of the rooms sat a large bathtub, while the other wall contained a striking fireplace, adorned on the outside with highly polished marble and intricate woodwork that was gilded with gold. A small table and chairs and a large wardrobe completed the rooms’ furnishings, drawing looks of appreciation from both men.

 

“I trust you will find the accommodations to your liking?” Pinot asked.

 

Porthos nodded, “Yes, these are very suitable, thank you.

 

Pinot bowed again. “I will have water brought for your baths and the Comte extends an invitation to dine with him this evening. Please do not hesitate to ask the household staff if there is anything else you require.” With a final bow, Pinot exited the room, leaving the two men to gape at their surroundings.

 

“Not bloody bad, eh?” Porthos beamed.

 

“I could get used to this,” d’Artagnan agreed.

 

“Best not to,” Porthos replied, “Next week we’ll be back to sleeping outside and eating salted pork.” He walked to the table, pulling a grape from the bowl that sat there and popped it in his mouth. “You want this room or the other?”

 

“I’ll take the one next door, since you’ve already made yourself comfortable,” d’Artagnan teased, pointing at the fruit bowl.

 

Porthos’ grin simply widened as he threw another grape into his mouth, making the young man shake his head at his friend’s antics as he left for his room.

* * *

The two Musketeers had enjoyed the baths that had been prepared for them, d’Artagnan even adding a sachet of scented powder that had been left for him and luxuriating in the sweet-smelling water until it started to turn cold. When he’d finally washed and pulled himself from the tub, he felt wonderfully serene and again sent a prayer of thanks at his luck at being sent to the Comte’s.

 

He finished dressing, carefully buttoning one of his new linen shirts, which was a gift from Athos for his birthday. They were of such a fine quality, trimmed with expensive lace, that d’Artagnan had been hesitant to wear them for anything other than a special occasion, knowing he could never afford to replace them if they were damaged. When he’d finished dressing and examined his appearance in the mirror, he walked next door to collect his friend so they might go meet the Comte.

 

Porthos seemed just as relaxed as the young man and he smiled approvingly upon seeing the shirt d’Artagnan wore beneath his doublet. “It fits you well; Athos would be pleased.”

 

The Gascon ducked his head shyly and Porthos clasped his shoulder, guiding him from the room. “Come on then, I’m starving.”

 

This comment pulled a laugh from the young man as he pointed out, “You’re always starving.”

 

Porthos gave the Gascon a mock look of anger, clapping a hand to his chest, “Of course, I am. Takes a lot of food to build all this muscle!”

 

The comment had the desired result, pulling an even larger laugh from the young man as was Porthos’ intention. Although the Gascon had grown accustomed to nobility from his service at the palace, Porthos knew this was the first time the boy would be expected to directly interact with them and he was a little anxious at the thought. He led the way downstairs and into a grand dining room where the Comte mingled with various other guests.

 

At the Musketeers’ arrival, Pinot spoke quietly in the Comte’s ear who immediately took notice of them and moved forward to introduce himself. At his approach, it was Porthos’ and d’Artagnan’s turn to offer small bows, lifting their heads afterwards to greet their host.

 

“Musketeers, you are most welcome in my home. Apologies for not having been available to greet you earlier, but a Comte’s responsibilities must always come first, I fear.”

 

“Porthos and d’Artagnan,” the larger man introduced them. “We are most grateful for your invitation to attend your festival and thank you for opening your home to us.”

 

There was no time for further conversation as dinner was announced and the two men were seated on opposite sides of the table, near the middle, while the Comte took his place at one end. The food that was presented was excellent and paired with strong wine that flowed plentifully. By the end of the meal, d’Artagnan realized that he might have overindulged a bit, feeling somewhat giddy from the effects of the alcohol he’d consumed. Porthos must have noticed his slightly glazed eyes and he pointed to his water goblet, indicating that d’Artagnan should stop drinking wine and switch to water instead. The Gascon gave a slight nod of understanding, pushing his wine glass away as he leaned back in his chair in satisfaction of the fine meal they’d had.

 

From this position, the Gascon watched as Pinot re-entered the room, bending low to whisper in the Comte’s ear. At Pinot’s words, the Comte seemed to pale and moved to stand from the table. d’Artagnan looked to Porthos, seeing that the other man had also noticed the Comte’s behaviour. Excusing themselves, the two rose with the Comte and followed him from the room.

 

“Comte,” Porthos started, stopping the man from walking away, “may we have a word?”

 

The Comte seemed conflicted by the request, but ultimately turned to face them, affixing a tremulous smile to his face.

 

“We couldn’t help but notice that you seem disturbed by something,” d’Artagnan offered. “Is there something we might assist with?”

 

Again, the Comte seemed at odds with himself for several seconds and then deflated before their eyes. “Yes,” he breathed out gratefully, “I am most troubled and you may be able to help. Please,” he said as he made to walk away, “follow me.”

 

He led the two men into the library where he poured three glasses of brandy, toasting the Musketeers with his glass as he downed the fiery liquid. Once he had fortified himself with the brandy, Porthos and d’Artagnan waited patiently for the man to speak. “Over the last several days, people have been getting sick.”

 

Porthos frowned, asking, “What do you mean sick? How?”

 

The Comte put down his glass, wringing his hands together, as he explained, “It begins with a general feeling of being unwell and sometimes a low fever. This lasts for several days before those afflicted begin to suffer from cramping of the stomach, usually leading to vomiting and a running of the bowels. This seems to be accompanied by a high fever at which point the person is unaware of those around them, often falling into a deep but restless sleep.” The Comte paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, “Pinot just told me that one of the first to suffer the effects has just died.”

 

The Gascon traded a concerned look with Porthos, “When did people start getting sick?”

 

“It has been more than a week,” the Comte admitted, despairingly. “I had thought to delay the festival but Pinot and others convinced me that it was nothing and we should proceed as planned. I fear that whatever is causing people to fall ill is spreading and that I may have condemned those who have joined us to a painful death.” The Comte nearly sobbed his last words, clearly distraught at potentially causing harm to those at the estate.

 

“Where are the people who are sick?” Porthos inquired.

 

“They have been asked to remain in their houses if living outside these walls, tended to by their families, and those within have been kept in their rooms as long as they, too, have someone to care for them. I fear that no matter the loyalty of my household staff, they will not be willing to care for those infected if this continues to spread.”

 

“You think this might be another fever?” Porthos questioned, recalling stories he’d heard from others of the devastating fevers that spread like wildfire and killed nearly all those who fell ill.

 

The Comte shrugged, “It is a reasonable conclusion.”

 

“If this is a fever, as you believe, then it will be highly contagious. We must keep people from coming into contact with the sick,” d’Artagnan stated.

 

The Comte nodded. “I have been considering moving everyone in the house to one of the larger common rooms and sealing the gates of the estate to prevent people from coming and going.” The man drew a shaky breath, as he continued, “I was hoping this might resolve itself before taking such drastic actions.”

 

Porthos nodded, “I think you’ve done the right thing so far, but this could be serious. We must advise the King.”

 

The Comte’s reaction was immediate and vehement, “No!” Calming himself, he tried again. “No, I think it’s too early yet to raise the alarm in Paris. There’s only a handful of people sick at this point and the person who died may have been unwell already. We’ll proceed with the festival as planned tomorrow.” At that, the Comte seemed to decide that the conversation had ended and moved to return to his guests. “Thank you gentleman for listening. I’ll rely upon your discretion in this matter. Good night.”

 

The two Musketeers watched as the nobleman disappeared down the long hallway, d’Artagnan looking after the man with a look of astonishment on his face. As he opened his mouth to speak, Porthos took his arm and led the way back to their rooms, whispering a short, “Not here.”

 

Porthos opened the door to his room and ushered the young man in, closing the door firmly behind them.

 

“Porthos, we must send news to the King. If this really is another outbreak, it could devastate France if not properly contained,” d’Artagnan immediately pleaded.

 

“I know. I’ve ‘eard the stories same as you and I know how serious this is,” Porthos answered.

 

“Why isn’t the Comte taking this more seriously? I’d heard him described as a fair man, one who cares for his people.”

 

“Fear does funny things to folks,” Porthos responded. “It’s easier for him to continue to deny what’s going on, than to admit that his estate could be remembered as the place that spread death to France.”

 

d’Artagnan sat heavily in a chair, looking beseechingly at his friend, “What do we do?”

 

Porthos ran a hand across his face, considering the boy’s question. “We wait and watch. Tomorrow we’ll be meetin’ a whole bunch more of the guests and we see what information we can pick up to get a better idea of how bad things are.” Porthos pinned d’Artagnan with a steely gaze, “If it’s bad, we’ll find a way to advise the King, no matter what the Comte wants.”

 

The Gascon looked at him gratefully, immensely glad for his strong presence in the middle of such a potentially dire situation. He rose from his seat and briefly clasped the larger man’s arm in solidarity, heading for the door, “Then I’ll wish you a good night. From the sound of it, we have a difficult day ahead of us.”

 

Porthos watched the young man leave and allowed his shoulders to droop. He was more terrified than he’d let on, but knew that d’Artagnan needed him to stay steady. Now that he was alone, his mind conjured unbidden the many stories he’d heard from those who’d survived the fevers in the past – if this was the start of another epidemic, no one was safe.

 

to be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We understand that the sick number well over a dozen, both within and outside your walls.” The Gascon paused for a moment to see if the other man would refute his claims, and continued when the man stayed silent. “Also, no one is aware of anyone who has gotten well again after succumbing to the illness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read, comment and leave kudos. I'm grateful for the great response and hope you enjoy this next chapter.

The following day seemed again ideally perfect, if not for the Comte’s words hanging like a dark cloud over their thoughts. Porthos and d’Artagnan had both woken early and exited into the courtyard once they were dressed. The courtyard seemed even emptier than the day before, most of the preparations having been completed the day prior and the first visitors not expected until after the mid-day meal.

 

Having a look around at the few people present, Porthos turned to his companion. “Think it’s time we did some snoopin’ around to see what else we can find out about these people who are gettin’ sick.”

 

The Gascon nodded to him and passed his gaze over the courtyard. “Meet back in your room in an hour?” he suggested.

 

Porthos nodded and moved away to explore the area to his left, while d’Artagnan focused on the right side of the large square. He wandered slowly, smiling and nodding at some of the people he passed. He was attracted to a stand holding bolts of finely woven cloth, one of the few carts that had been filled at this point. Approaching it, he fingered a particularly brilliant red piece of fabric that he imagined would set off the vibrant tones in Constance’s hair – if only she wasn’t still with her husband. Pulling his hand away, he was about to leave when his ears picked up the low sounds of a woman sobbing. Walking around the side of the cart, he pushed aside a piece of draping that hid a small alcove behind the stand, finding a young woman who was clearly distraught.

 

At his entrance, the young girl looked up, startled at his approach. She looked at him cautiously, asking, “May I help you, Monsieur?”

 

d’Artagnan offered a small smile, “Actually, I was wondering the same about you?”

 

The girl smiled shyly, realizing he was referring to the fact that she’d been crying. She wiped at her face with her sleeve, attempting to dry the tears. Seeing her predicament, d’Artagnan pulled a finely embroidered handkerchief – another memento of his time with Constance - from his doublet and offered to the young woman who accepted it with a timid smile.

 

Dabbing at her eyes, she looked at him curiously, “Thank you, Monsieur. I did not realize that anyone would find me here.”

 

“I’m certain that no one else realized your distress,” d’Artagnan offered gallantly, recognising that the girl was embarrassed to have been discovered. “May I ask what has you so upset?”

 

The girl ducked her head, considering what, if anything, she should share with this handsome stranger. Raising her eyes to his, she said, “But, Monsieur, I don’t even know your name.”

 

It was d’Artagnan’s turn to duck his head in embarrassment as he introduced himself. “Forgive my poor manners, Mademoiselle, I am d’Artagnan of the King’s Musketeers.”

 

The girl’s eyes widened, “A Musketeer?” The Gascon nodded. “I am Nicol Chauvet. My father owns these fine fabrics and he is the reason for my sadness.” Nicol twisted the handkerchief in her hand in nervousness and d’Artagnan sensed that she was trying to decide how much more she should say.

 

“A pleasure, Mademoiselle Chauvet,” he replied sincerely, patiently waiting for more.

 

The girl must have sensed that he was hoping to hear more of her story and continued, “My father has been unwell this past week, but yesterday he took a high fever and has been suffering from stomach upset. My sisters are with him now, but I’ve heard rumours of others being sick as well and even dying.” Her eyes watered again and d’Artagnan realized that this young woman’s father could potentially be infected with the fevers that were affecting those living on the lands of de Chartres.

 

“Mademoiselle, how many others have become sick?” the Gascon probed.

 

“Over a dozen,” she replied softly.

 

d’Artagnan’s stomach dropped at the news that those caring for the sick were also in their midst, suggesting that the gates of the estate needed to be closed sooner rather than later to avoid carrying the illness beyond de Chartres’ borders.

 

Not wanting to concern the young women further, the Gascon asked, “I assume that there are those who have recovered from this illness?”

 

Nicol seemed to be taken back by the question as though it was something she hadn’t yet considered. “I’m not certain, Monsieur,” she said, unsteadily. “I suppose there must be but the only ones I’ve heard about so far are still sick.”

 

Not wanting to alarm the girl further, d’Artagnan smiled charmingly, “But of course there must be those who have gotten well.” He leaned in as though sharing a secret, “It is simply that news of the sick makes for better gossip.”

 

He was pleased to receive a smile in return at his comment. “If you will excuse me, Mademoiselle, I must find my friend. I wish your father a speedy recovery.” With a slight inclination of his head, he made to leave.

 

“Oh, Monsieur, your handkerchief.”

 

The Gascon eyed the square of linen in her hand and, knowing that the likelihood of her father recovering might be poor, he said, “Please, consider it yours.”

 

“Thank you for your kindness, Monsieur,” Nicol replied with another small smile.

 

d’Artagnan backed away from the alcove where they’d spoken and look at the sun hanging high in the sky; the hour had nearly passed and Porthos would be waiting for him soon. Stopping at the well, he pulled up a bucket filled with water and drank quickly, before heading back inside to share what he’d learned.

* * *

Upstairs, Porthos was already waiting for him and pacing anxiously; it was obvious that his news was not better than d’Artagnan’s. Closing the door behind him, the Gascon seated himself at the table, Porthos following his lead and sitting across from him.

 

“You first,” Porthos indicated to the Gascon.

 

“I spoke with a young woman whose father has been unwell. Yesterday his fever rose and his stomach has been upset. She knows of more than a dozen others who have fallen ill and was unable to name a single person who’s recovered from whatever this is.”

 

Porthos frowned at the young man’s words, recounting his own information, “I managed to track down the Comte’s man, Pinot. He wasn’t very happy with my questions, but I hinted that he had to be honest since we’re here on behalf of the King.”

 

d’Artagnan looked at his friend sharply, “But we’re not here on the King’s business.”

 

Yeah,” Porthos grinned, “but he don’t know that. Anyway, they’ve got at least four people inside the house that are sick and requests for help have been coming in from the surrounding farms from those who have sick family members. From the sounds of it, the count’s more than a dozen and Pinot knows of at least two dead. Didn’t think to ask if he knew of anyone who got better, but it’s a good idea.”

 

“So, what do we do?” d’Artagnan asked.

 

Porthos rose determinedly, “We have another talk with the Comte. If this is the fevers, we need him to close the gates, send word to anyone who’s sick to stay in their homes and send word to the King so they know what’s going on here.”

 

“Do you think he’ll listen?” d’Artagnan countered.

 

“Not sure,” a smirk graced his face, “guess we’ll need to be extra convincing.”

 

The two friends descended the stairs to the main entry of the grand house and found Pinot giving orders to one of the household staff. Waiting until the man was finished, they approached him as soon as he was alone.

 

“Pinot, we’re looking for the Comte. Have you any idea where we can find him?” d’Artagnan queried.

 

“The Comte is in the drawing room, reviewing the preparations for this evening. May I be of some assistance?”

 

“Actually, I had one more question for you,” Porthos responded. “How many of the people who got sick have gotten well?”

 

“Gotten well, Monsieur Porthos?”

 

“Yes, there are those who have recovered, are there not?” d’Artagnan interjected.

 

Pinot had a pinched look on his face, obviously very uncomfortable at having to answer the Musketeers’ questions. Finally, he answered in a low voice, “I know of none who have recovered yet.” With that he turned away, motioning for them to follow. “Please, the Comte is this way.” The man walked quickly and the Musketeers were forced to follow before he disappeared from their view. As they fell into step behind Pinot, d’Artagnan mouthed to Porthos “No one?” Porthos nodded and sped up by a half step, forcing the young man to quicken his pace again to keep up.

 

With a brief knock on the drawing room door, Pinot entered, bowing deeply to the Comte. “Comte, the Musketeers have urgent business they wish to discuss with you.” Without waiting for permission, Pinot motioned them inside, then retreated from the room, closing the doors behind him.

 

The Comte looked somewhat surprised by their arrival, but recovered quickly, standing and approaching them, “I trust you have enjoyed your morning?”

 

“Yes, your reputation for generosity is well-earned and we thank you for your hospitality,” Porthos started. “In speaking with some of your visitors, we have become aware of some concerning information that we’d like to share with you. It relates to our conversation last night.”

 

A pained look appeared on the Comte’s face, clearly unhappy about the direction of their discussion. Jumping in before the Comte could protest, d’Artagnan moved to share what he’d learned. “We understand that the sick number well over a dozen, both within and outside your walls.” The Gascon paused for a moment to see if the other man would refute his claims, and continued when the man stayed silent. “Also, no one is aware of anyone who has gotten well again after succumbing to the illness.”

 

de Chartres turned away from them, moving to look out the window at the crowds of people below. The Musketeers traded a look, wondering if they should say anything, but Porthos gave a slight shake of his head, indicating patience. With a loud sigh, the Comte finally turned to face them again, appearing to have aged years in the few minutes since they had entered.

 

“I have received similar news and believe it is time to act.”

 

“If we may ask, Comte, what are your plans?” d’Artagnan inquired.

 

“I will close the gates so that we stop the spread of this illness. The Captain of my personal guard has been told to report and he will enforce my orders that no one may leave or enter.” Where the Comte had looked shrunken before, now he drew himself up, a look of determination in his eyes.

 

“What of Paris and the outlying farms?” Porthos extended.

 

“It is too dangerous for us to send anyone to Paris, lest we infect them accidentally, and I will be sending men around to the farms on my lands to order everyone to stay indoors. Anyone here who shows symptoms will be placed into one of the common rooms, so we may slow the spread of this disease,” de Chartres stated.

 

“Comte,” Porthos started carefully, understanding the dangers of disagreeing with a nobleman, “with all due respect, Paris must be made aware of our situation.”

 

“Perhaps they can send aid and physicians to care for the sick,” d’Artagnan added, doing his best to support his friend’s argument.

 

“No, I have decided and no one will leave these walls,” de Chartres declared.

 

“Alright, do you have a physician here who can look at the sick?” Porthos suggested, changing tact.

 

The Comte shook his head in regret, “He was the first to die.”

 

A knock at the door startled the three men, and a tall, middle-aged man peered inside. “Ah, Captain Bergerac, come in.” The man entered, his gaze travelling over the two Musketeers, recognizing fellow soldiers by their stance and the weapons at their hips.

 

Bergerac nodded to both men, returning his gaze to de Chartres, “Comte, you sent for me?”

 

“Yes,” the Comte waved his hand distractedly, “We must close the gates to the estate.”

 

“Pardon?” the Captain queried, surprised, given that it was the first day of their annual festival.

 

“You have heard of the sickness that has befallen us?” the Comte asked, receiving a nod from the other man. “It has become clear to me that I must act to stop its spread so I am ordering you to close the gates and not allow anyone to pass through.”

 

The Captain lifted an eyebrow, “There will be some who will want to leave.”

 

“I know,” de Chartres dropped his head, “you will do whatever is necessary to enforce my orders.”

 

“Yes, Comte,” the man inclined his head, glancing at the Musketeers.

 

The Comte noticed his look and hastened to introduce the men, “Ah, Bergerac, these are our Musketeer visitors.”

 

“Porthos and d’Artagnan,” the larger man offered. Catching the Comte’s eye, he added, “Perhaps d’Artagnan and I could assist the Captain in some way?”

 

“Yes, of course, I’m sure the Captain will welcome your assistance,” de Chartres acknowledged. At that, he turned to retake to his seat. Interpreting his actions as a dismissal, the three men exited the room, stopping outside to speak.

 

Knowing that it was dangerous to ask, but needing to understand where Bergerac’s loyalties lay, Porthos asked the man, “What of the idea to send word to the King?”

 

The Captain seemed troubled by the question and hesitated a moment before answering, “I do not believe it was the Comte’s wish to do so.”

 

Understanding Bergerac’s perspective and need to follow orders regardless of his personal views, Porthos nodded and focused on the task at hand. “How can we help?”

 

The Captain seemed grateful that the other man had let the matter drop and suggested they follow him to the gates to carry out the Comte’s request. As the men exited the house, they heard Pinot’s voice, calling for everyone’s attention from a balcony overlooking the foyer to hear the Comte’s announcement.

 

As the Comte spoke to the members of his household and the few others who were currently at the estate, the two Musketeers arrived with Bergerac at the gates where the Captain ordered his men to close and bar the only way in or out. Once closed, he positioned two of his men in front of the exit with orders to turn away anyone who attempted to get in or out.

 

“Now what?” d’Artagnan asked Porthos.

 

“I wish I bloody well knew,” the larger man replied, “I wish I knew.” 

* * *

Once the gates had been barred, Porthos suggested that the Captain do a count of those inside the walls of the estate, including getting an update of those who were sick; his suggestion would allow the Musketeers to better understand the level of resistance they might face if people started to panic, and the level of difficulty involved in getting a message back to Paris.

 

The two men wandered away from the gates once the Captain had left them so they could speak privately. d’Artagnan looked at his friend expectantly, hoping the older man might have more words of wisdom to offer.

 

Seeing the look on the young man’s face, Porthos took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. “We need more information about what’s been going on here and we need to figure out whether this is a fever or something else. If it is the fever, we’ll need to ride it out, but if we can prove something else has been makin’ people sick, we’ll be able to send to Paris for help.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded at the man’s logic. “Perhaps we can start by getting some more information about the symptoms, how long exactly people felt unwell before their fevers spiked, how long before death and so on.”

 

Porthos agreed, suggesting, “Pinot knows more than he’s lettin’ on and he seems uncomfortable with the Comte’s decision. Let’s see what else he’s willing to tell us and then we’ll go from there.”

 

The two friends fell into step beside each other, re-entering the house, spotting Pinot giving instructions to the cook. When he was finished, the two men walked over to speak with him.

 

“Pinot,” d’Artagnan began, “we really need more information about what’s been happening. Details about how long it takes for the fevers to appear, what happens next and what treatments have been tried.” The young man could sense Pinot’s desire to decline their request. “Pinot, we need to be able to prove what is causing this so we can act appropriately. The life of everyone on the Comte’s land depends on our actions.”

 

Reluctantly, the man acquiesced, suggesting, “You could speak with the maids who have been caring for the ill and I believe our physician kept notes of his and his patients’ symptoms until the time when he succumbed to his own fever.”

 

“Thank you Pinot,” d’Artagnan responded.

 

The two Musketeers conversed quietly for a moment before informing Pinot that d’Artagnan would speak with the maids while Porthos went to the physician’s rooms to find the man’s notes.

* * *

Aramis looked up at the sky, lazily watching the clouds pass overhead. He sat on the stairs leading down to the garrison courtyard, leaning back on his elbows as he squinted against the glare of the sun. When he returned his gaze to the courtyard, he found Athos standing with one leg on the bottom step, looking at him with a faint quirk of his lips.

 

Aramis sighed at having been caught daydreaming and moved to sit up. Athos held up a hand to still his motions and took a seat beside him instead.

 

“They’ll be back in a few days, you know,” Athos reminded the other man.

 

“I know, it’s just so,” Aramis searched for the right word, “quiet here without them.”

 

Athos knocked his shoulder against the other man’s gently, understanding his feelings at missing their other two members. While it wasn’t unusual for them to be separated for certain missions, the majority of the time they were deployed together as a foursome. The resulting bond that existed between the four men made the absence of one or more of their group uncomfortable, felt more keenly when there was nothing for the remaining members to do other than train and sit around at the garrison.

 

“The time they spend together will be good for them,” Athos responded. While he also missed the two men, he knew that when the four were together, Athos and d’Artagnan invariably drifted to one another, as did Aramis and Porthos. Spending several days together would improve the understanding between the two men, ultimately deepening their friendship and improving their ability to work together during missions.

 

Aramis nodded, a small smile gracing his face, “And I suppose that we shouldn’t begrudge them their reward at the Comte’s festival either; after all, d’Artagnan did bleed for the right to go.”

 

“And Porthos was exceptionally efficient in apprehending our would-be assassin,” Athos replied.

 

“Alright, so enough of my melancholy. Time for wine?” Aramis asked with a grin.

 

“It is perhaps a bit early, but at least we’ll be assured a good table if we go now,” the other man agreed. Standing, Athos extended a hand to his friend, pulling Aramis to his feet and the two moved out of the courtyard in search of a tavern where they could get an early start on the evening’s drinking.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos opened his eyes, realizing that he now had a possible timeline: anywhere from a week to two weeks for initial symptoms to appear, which then seemed to improve, followed by 5-7 days of extreme symptoms before death. He shuddered at the relatively short timeframe, recognizing that those who were currently suffering in the second stage of this illness would likely be dying within the next few days if a cure wasn’t found.

Pinot led the two Musketeers to the second floor of the Chateau, stopping first to open a door to a large, sunny room which obviously belonged to their deceased physician. The first room they entered contained a small bed, table and two chairs, and a large cupboard that, upon closer inspection, contained all manner of bags and bottles containing various medicinal liquids, herbs and salves. Another door opened into a larger room which was similar to the rooms that the two men had been given, and also had a large writing desk and chair against one wall, where Porthos spied a leather-bound notebook.

 

He motioned to it with one hand, “I’m guessin’ that’s what we’re looking for. I’ll take it back to my room to read.”

 

As they exited, d’Artagnan turned to his friend, “I’ll come see you when I’ve finished with the maids.” Porthos nodded his agreement, turning to climb the stairs to the third floor, while Pinot led the Gascon further down the second floor hallway. At the end of the long hall, Pinot finally stopped in front of a door and knocked, surprising d’Artagnan that the man didn’t simply enter. When the door opened, the Gascon was assaulted by the strong stench of sickness mingled with unwashed bodies and he unconsciously found himself taking a step back to escape the smell. When the maid saw who was standing there, she opened the door further, allowing d’Artagnan a glimpse of the inside where he could see cots lined up against one wall, filled by people in various states of consciousness, being tended by at least two others who helped those being sick or washed sweating faces with cool clothes.

 

Pinot was clearly distraught at being at the door and he held a handkerchief to his face, his words coming out muffled by the fabric. “Giselle, please step outside. This man,” he inclined his head in d’Artagnan’s direction, “is a Musketeer and he has some questions about the sick.”

 

Giselle did as she was asked, stepping into the hallway and pulling the door closed behind her. “Monsieur,” the girl addressed d’Artagnan, waiting politely.

 

“Er, Giselle,” the Gascon sought to recover from what he’d seen, “how many people do you care for?”

 

“There are five, Monsieur,” the girl responded. At Pinot’s surprised glance, she explained, “Another of the staff took ill this morning.”

 

“And how long ago did these people begin feeling unwell?” d’Artagnan asked.

 

The girl looked at Pinot as if uncertain of the answer, “Six, maybe seven days ago?” she said uncertainly.

 

“I understand that at first they feel generally unwell and suffer a low fever until several days later when their fever spikes and the stomach upset begins, is that correct?” the young man probed. At the young woman’s nod, he continued. “Are any of your patients improving?”

 

Again, Giselle looked at Pinot before answering quietly, “No, Monsieur.”

 

“Do you know what the doctor did to treat their symptoms?” the Gascon persisted.

 

Giselle shrugged, responding, “Cool clothes to bathe their skin, water to soothe their thirst. He brewed a tea before he became too ill to rise – it seemed to help, but none of us know how to make it.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded. “Giselle, how are you and the others feelings?” he asked, needing to know if the maids had also taken ill.

 

“I am well, Monsieur.” The girl looked over her shoulder at the closed door. “I am not certain about Paulette.”

 

“Paulette is one of the other girls who is helping you?” the Gascon confirmed, to which Giselle nodded again.

 

Sensing that he would gain nothing further from the girl, he thanked her and moved away, Pinot following a half-step behind him. They stopped at the stairs, d’Artagnan thanking Pinot for his help before the man moved quickly down the stairs to return to his duties. The Gascon moved in the opposite direction, ascending to the third floor to enter Porthos’ room where he found the man bent over the physician’s book, sipping from a glass of wine.

 

At his entrance, Porthos looked up, motioning to the open bottle that sat on the table, but d’Artagnan shook his head and poured a cup of water instead. Taking a drink, he sat across from his friend, still shaken by what he’d seen.

 

Porthos eyed him carefully, “You sure you don’t want somethin’ stronger?”

 

The young man drew a deep breath and shook his head. “No. It’s bad Porthos.”

 

Understanding the young man’s need to speak, Porthos sat quietly, waiting for his friend to gather his thoughts. “They’ve set up a makeshift infirmary in a room at the end of the hall on the second floor. The smell is,” he paused, shuddering, “overwhelming. From the quick look I got, the most that they’re doing is keeping the sick comfortable and they don’t believe that anyone is getting any better.”

 

Porthos nodded, unsurprised by the news. These people might have had a chance with a physician, but without one…

 

“Giselle, the girl I spoke to, she said there was a tea that the physician brewed – it seemed to help for a time.”

 

Porthos’ eyes lit up at the possibility that they might be able to help some of the people who were suffering. “I’ve been reading his notes – his writing was bloody awful,” he stated with a small grin. “He might ‘ave put on a good front for folks, but he didn’t have a clue what was causing this or how to treat it. If he found a tea that was helpin’ it was completely by accident.”

 

“Accident or not, we’ll need to see if we can recreate it. So far, it’s the only thing I’ve heard of that was even remotely helping,” d’Artagnan countered.

 

“Agreed. I’ll need more time to sort through the man’s notes and, now that I know what to look for, I’ll see if I can find the recipe he was using,” Porthos decided. Seeing that the young man needed something to keep him busy, he suggested, “Why don’t you go track down Bergerac; find out how many people we’ve been locked up with?”

 

The Gascon nodded, downing his drink before replacing the cup on the table. He squeezed Porthos’ shoulder as he left the room. He headed back to the courtyard, stopping at the top of the steps just outside the door, and looked around, not seeing the man anywhere. Descending slowly, the young man noted that the two men ordered to guard the gates were still in place and he consoled himself that he could always ask the two men where to find their Captain if unable to locate the man himself. He decided to have a better look at the outside of the chateau, considering that it might be useful information for later if they needed to get a message to Paris without the Comte’s knowledge.

 

Turing right at the bottom of the steps, he followed the front of the building around to its corner, where he observed the side wall which stood 30 feet away from the courtyard wall. Glancing around to confirm he was alone, he followed the line of the building towards the back. The entire back section of the chateau grounds was encompassed by a large garden, boasting several varieties of blossoming flowers, trees nearer the back and hedgerows surrounding two, more private seating areas centered on each side of the space.

 

The Gascon decided to follow the courtyard wall around, taking him out of sight of anyone within the house as he moved behind the trees that grew next to a large portion of the wall. Reaching the wall, he walked right again and paused as he spotted a tall, iron gate. Through its bars, he could see into the forest that protected the back of the Comte’s estate. Eyeing the gate for a moment, he spotted a simple lock that held it firmly closed, as he discovered when he placed a hand on the bars to test its strength. Filing away this knowledge of a potential exit, he continued around the back and then the other side of the courtyard wall, finding nothing more of interest. He moved next along the other side of the chateau, discovering several buildings on this side, including the stables and, most importantly, the buildings used by the Comte’s guards.

 

He looked at the buildings deciding on one that he believed most likely housed the Captain’s office, and peered inside through the half-open doorway. His instincts were proven correct as the Captain looked up at his arrival.

 

“Ah, d’Artagnan, please come in,” the Captain greeted, standing from his desk.

 

“Captain,” the Gascon greeted, “I was wondering if you might be able to share the results of your count?”

 

Bergerac nodded and offered the young man a seat as he retook his own. “I have just finished my report to the Comte and I believe our timing was fortunate.” d’Artagnan raised an eyebrow at this. “Some of the household had left to make last minute purchases for the festival and those guests attending last night’s dinner left afterwards to return later' tonight. Other than yourselves, no more had arrived. That leaves 26 people within our walls, five of whom are ill, the two of you, and 8 of my men.”

 

The Gascon nodded, noting that the numbers were in favor of the soldiers since they represented just under half of the people present, but knowing that their training and weapons would even things out. “Has the Comte spoken further of his plans?” d’Artagnan asked.

 

The Captain shook his head slowly, “I believe the Comte is _uncertain_ about how to proceed and is relying on others with expertise to advise him.” With this last comment, Bergerac looked pointedly at the young man, leaving him no doubt that the Comte was hoping that the Musketeers might somehow find a way to resolve the situation.

 

d’Artagnan nodded, asking, “And your plans?”

 

Bergerac shrugged, “I am a soldier. For now, I have my orders.” The Gascon heard the underlying sentiment in the Captain’s words. He and his men were paid soldiers and, most of the time, the work was likely fairly easy and paid well; however, that was not to suggest that if things got worse that the man’s loyalties could not be swayed. Another useful piece of information, he thought to himself.

 

“Very well,” the Gascon rose from his seat, “thank you for the information. We’ll let you know if we learn anything of value.”

 

Exiting the office, d’Artagnan finished his walk around the courtyard, checking briefly on their horses in the stables, before heading back into the house to talk with Porthos.

* * *

Porthos had been forcing himself to focus on the physician’s notes but a throbbing behind his eyes was making it difficult to concentrate. Sighing deeply, he placed a hand on his stomach, feeling a flutter of nausea and he pushed his glass of wine away, thinking now was not the time to suffer the ill-effects of too much drink. Rubbing at his eyes with his fingers, he kept them closed and rested his chin in one hand. The pain in his head eased a bit as he tried to relax, reflecting on what he’d gleaned from the physician’s notebook so far.

 

The man, Marceau, had first noted a conversation with a merchant who was travelling through the Comte’s lands and was invited to spend several days at the chateau to sell his wares. Two days after his arrival, the merchant sought Marceau’s advice about feelings of lethargy and nausea, coupled with intermittent chills that were caused by a low-grade fever. His advice had been for the merchant to take to his bed for a couple days, drinking tea laced with peppermint to ease the man’s symptoms. After the prescribed bed-rest, the merchant had in fact improved and made plans to leave at the end of the week.

 

That should have been the end, but Marceau had been surprised to have been sought out by a healer from a village located a day’s ride away, seeking advice about his patient who was none other than the merchant who had visited the chateau. The situation was unusual enough that the physician had thought to add it into his notes, writing that the man’s symptoms had not only returned but worsened. Where the nausea had been an inconvenience before, it was now replaced by vicious cramping of the stomach and nearly continuous running of the bowels, leaving him fatigued and in pain. Similarly, the fever that had previously caused chills now rose to such a point that the man was barely aware, suffering long lapses in consciousness and speaking deliriously in his sleep. Marceau had shared his peppermint tea recipe but to no avail. He’d offered suggestions for other herbal draughts but despite both men’s efforts the merchant passed away four days later.

 

While the man’s passing was disconcerting, Marceau had not thought much more of it until two visiting farmers from de Chartres’ lands came to him with similar complaints. By this time the physician noted his own poor health, stating that he’d begun to treat himself with brews steeped with ginger and peppermint to control his nausea, and yarrow and elderberry for his fever. He offered the same to the visiting farmers and the three of them improved quickly, leading Marceau to believe he’d found a cure until he fell ill again, this time his symptoms much exacerbated than before. Unable to care for his own needs and the needs of others who were beginning to show symptoms, he advised the Comte of his concerns regarding a possible outbreak, before succumbing five days later.

 

Porthos opened his eyes, realizing that he now had a possible timeline: anywhere from a week to two weeks for initial symptoms to appear, which then seemed to improve, followed by 5-7 days of extreme symptoms before death. He shuddered at the relatively short timeframe, recognizing that those who were currently suffering in the second stage of this illness would likely be dying within the next few days if a cure wasn’t found. His head throbbed angrily as he ran a hand across his face, reaching for his wine glass and then stopping, deciding he needed to keep a clear head. Not for the first time, he wished that he had Aramis’ medical knowledge to guide their investigation and Athos’ quiet confidence to bolster his own; as the situation continued to unfold, he felt entirely out of his depth.

* * *

They had hardly walked through the garrison gates when Treville caught their attention, calling them up to his office. Trading glances, it was clear that neither man knew the reason for the Captain’s request, and they moved quickly to climb the stairs and present themselves in his office. Treville gave Athos and Aramis a nod of acknowledgement and got quickly to the point. “I need you to ride out and collect Porthos and d’Artagnan and then continue on to Le Mans. There is a special envoy travelling from Spain and the King has asked for the four of you by name to provide an escort from Le Mans to Paris. Take Pinchon, Fouquet and Sebastian with you – that should give you sufficient numbers to return safely.”

 

“Surely there are others we could bring so that Porthos and d’Artagnan might enjoy their time at the festival,” Athos countered.

 

Treville shook his head decisively, “I’m afraid it’s unavoidable. Verne’s men are overdue and I must send others to look for them. Between that and the ongoing protection of the King, we are stretched thin and I must rely on d’Artagnan and Porthos to cover the shortfall.”

 

Athos and Aramis nodded, the latter adding, “I’m sure they’ll understand, Captain. Besides, they’ll at least get to enjoy a couple days of the Comte’s hospitality before we arrive.”

 

The two men exited the office and descended the stairs, where the other three Musketeers waited, having received their orders earlier. Athos nodded to the men, saying, “Give us a half hour to get ready.”

Receiving a nod in return, the two headed first for their rooms to collect extra clothes for the journey, before returning to stock their saddlebags with provisions and extra ammunition, finally saddling their horses just before their half hour was up. Mounting, the five men exited the garrison together, weaving their way out of Paris to the road to Chartres. 

* * *

d’Artagnan stopped at the chateau’s kitchen, collecting some food for the two of them, before returning to Porthos’ room. Entering the room, he frowned as he found his friend still seated, head bent forward in his hands. Slipping in quietly so he didn’t disturb the man, he slid the tray in his hands onto the table, speaking quietly, “Porthos?”

 

The man lifted his head and d’Artagnan was shocked by the paleness of the man’s face and the sweat dotting his brow. Placing a hand on his friend’s forehead before he could move away, the Gascon was surprised at the heat he felt there. “You’re sick,” the young man declared softly.

 

Porthos lifted his eyes, the truth of d’Artagnan’s statement reflected in his eyes. Crouching down so that he was at eye level with the other man, the Gascon asked, “What are you feeling? Be honest with me, Porthos, this is not the time to be stoic.”

 

At the pleading tone in the young man’s voice Porthos sighed and admitted, “I feel tired and queasy, and my head’s poundin’.”

 

“Is that all?” questioned the concerned young man.

 

Porthos gave a short nod, stopping when he realized it made his head hurt more. “Alright,” d’Artagnan stood, “we can handle this. What did you find in the physician’s notes?”

 

“His name was Marceau,” Porthos started, “he’d treated three other men with various teas that seemed to help initially, but weren’t much use once their fevers spiked. The initial stage lasts anywhere from a week to two weeks, and he and the other man died within a week of their fever’s spiking.”

 

The Gascon nodded to himself, mentally calculating the time he had to save Porthos – two weeks; they had to get help before then or his brother could die. “What was in the teas?”

 

Porthos motioned to the book with one hand, closing his eyes against the discomfort in his stomach and head. “It’s in there,” he slurred.

 

Reaching a decision, he placed his hands on his friend’s upper arms, pulling him gently from the chair and guiding him to sit on the bed instead. As he removed his friend’s doublet, shirt and boots, Porthos sat silently, his lack of protest a sure sign of how poorly he felt. Pulling the blankets back, d’Artagnan guided the other man to lay on his side, knowing that the position might help his upset stomach. He pulled the blankets up to his friend’s chin, tucking them in around Porthos’ shoulders as he seemed to burrow further under the covers. He tested the heat of Porthos’ fever once more, finding that it had remained consistent, and then removed himself to the table to study the physician’s notes.

 

As he read, he munched absently on the food he’d brought, no longer able to ignore the demands of his stomach. He found the entry that his friend referred to quickly and rang for hot water to be brought to the room, then ran to the physician’s room to retrieve the required herbs while he waited for the water he’d requested. Fortunately, Marceau had been incredibly organized and he located what he needed easily, bringing an ample supply of each so that he could brew the teas as needed without having to leave his friend again.

 

Checking on Porthos when he returned, he was relieved to find no change, and set about steeping the tea for his friend with the boiling water that had been delivered. Uncertain about how long he should let it sit, he waited nearly fifteen minutes before sitting down next to the bed to lay a hand on Porthos’ arm, shaking him gently.

 

“Porthos, I need you to wake for a few minutes,” the Gascon softly called. He was rewarded with a quiet moan, but nothing else. “Porthos, please, this will help you feel better.” He was rewarded with the sight of two unfocused eyes, staring at him in confusion.

 

“Wha’?” Porthos mumbled.

 

“Let me help you sit up,” d’Artagnan offered, lifting his friend’s shoulders and placing several pillows behind him so that he could drink without choking. “Here,” he handed Porthos the cup of tea. “Drink the whole thing.”

 

Porthos’ hands fumbled to hold the cup and for a moment, d’Artagnan steadied it with his own hand until he was confident that the other man could manage the task without spilling. His eyes already drooping, Porthos managed to down the entire contents of the cup and the young man rescued it from his hands as his friend drifted off to sleep. Knowing he could not leave his side, d’Artagnan brought a chair over from the table so he could watch over him, and turned his mind to the challenge of notifying the King.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who continues to read, comment and offer kudos on this story and to those guests who I can't respond to personally. Please know that I read every comment and appreciate every word shared. Hope you enjoy this next chapter.

The five Musketeers had ridden at a relatively leisurely but steady pace for most of the day, taking full advantage of the fresh horses and the easy road that led them to Chartres. Stopping for the evening to camp out under the stars, they approached the gates of the Comte’s chateau in mid-morning the following day, surprised when they saw the closed gates and profound lack of people about.

 

Aramis and Athos traded glances, both sensing the wrongness of the scene in front of them. Where the gates should have been wide open, leading into a courtyard filled with people and merriment, the way ahead of them was firmly barred and silence seemed to rule. Aramis looked smiling at his friend, “Perhaps we should knock?” he suggested.

 

Athos made an “after you” motion with one hand, so with a put-upon sigh, Aramis dismounted and moved forward to bang on the gates.

 

“Who goes there?”

 

Aramis could see no one from where he stood, but Athos, several feet away from the gate, looked up to see someone standing atop the courtyard wall. “We are the King’s Musketeers, here to collect our comrades,” he called back.

 

"Wait there,” the man shouted, disappearing off the wall and into the walled courtyard.

 

Aramis had in the meantime backed away from the gates and now stood beside his and Athos’ horses. Casting an inquiring look at Athos, Aramis stated, “That’s peculiar.”

 

“Mmm,” Athos hummed.

 

They waited for several minutes before another man appeared atop the courtyard wall. “Musketeers, I am Captain Bergerac of the Comte’s guards. I understand you are here for your two friends. Unfortunately, they are unable to leave.”

 

Athos raised an eyebrow at the man’s statement. “I am Athos and I’m afraid we must insist. They are needed for the King’s business, a matter of some urgency.”

 

“Be that as it may, the gates will remain closed,” Bergerac stated firmly.

 

“Captain, I’m certain you understand a soldier’s duty to do as he’s been commanded. If we are to disobey our orders and leave our friends, we will need a better reason than what you’ve so far provided.”

 

The Captain seemed to hesitate a moment, before acquiescing, “The Comte has ordered that no one be allowed in or out of the grounds. There have been several people who have fallen ill with fevers.” Bergerac pitched his voice lower before continuing, “There have been deaths and we’re uncertain of the cause.”

 

Athos turned to face Aramis as he heard his friend’s indrawn breath; they were all aware that when fevers struck, they could spread like wildfire, leaving a swath of devastation in their path that few escaped.

 

Returning his gaze to the Captain, Athos asked, “Can we speak with our men?” Again there was hesitation so Athos pressed before the man could answer. “We must ensure ourselves of their wellbeing before we can be convinced to depart without them.”

 

Nodding, Bergerac turned to someone within the courtyard, ordering the man to fetch the Musketeers to the wall. While they waited, Aramis sidled closer to Athos so they could speak unheard, “This could be very bad, Athos. The last time I saw a fever strike, it wiped out an entire village and had to be abandoned for several years before it was deemed safe to return.”

 

Athos shared his friend’s concern but maintained a calm front as he watched Aramis twist his hands with concern. “Let’s wait and see what Porthos and d’Artagnan have to say. We need to verify the Captain’s words before we make any further decisions.” Aramis nodded, but it was clear by the set of his shoulders that the man’s words had done little to assuage his growing anxiety.

 

“Athos, Aramis!” a new voice called to them from the top of the wall. The men looked up at d’Artagnan’s smiling face, Aramis waving a hand in greeting before noticing the absence of their other friend.

 

“Where is Porthos,” he asked warily.

 

Choosing to ask a question of his own before answering, d’Artagnan countered, “Has the Captain explained what’s been happening?”

 

“He’s given us some information, but we’d rather prefer your take on things, if you don’t mind,” Athos suggested.

 

The Gascon nodded, “There have been several people suffering from fevers. The symptoms are mild at first but increase in severity about a week later. Within two weeks, there are deaths – two so far, but there are others currently ill within the walls of the chateau. The Comte has decided to minimize contact with others in order to curb the spread since we don’t know what’s causing it, nor how to treat it.”

 

“And Porthos?” Aramis asked again.

 

The young man looked down for a moment before meeting the other man’s gaze. “Sick. He started feeling poorly yesterday, suffering from nausea, a headache and a mild fever. I’ve been brewing him teas that seem to be helping, but he’s still sleeping a fair bit and refusing food.”

 

Aramis took a steadying breath and Athos placed a hand on his shoulder in assurance. “You’ve no idea what’s causing this?” Athos prompted.

 

d’Artagnan shook his head, “The physician noted the symptoms and their progression, but had accomplished nothing more than treating those with various herbs before succumbing himself. Whatever is causing this, it seems to be spreading.”

 

Athos nodded, “Please give us a moment,” He turned his horse away, moving to rejoin the other Musketeers with Aramis trailing behind him. “If this is the start of another outbreak, the King will have to be notified.” He looked at the other three Musketeers, “Are you confident in your ability to carry on by yourselves to carry out our orders?” The three men nodded in the affirmative and Athos gave them a quick look of gratitude. “Aramis, we’ll need to return to Paris to advise them of the situation here.”

 

Aramis shook his head, “No, I think you should ride back alone and bring assistance if you’re able.” Athos quirked an eyebrow, wondering what the other man was thinking. “I’ll stay here and see if I can be of assistance. From what d’Artagnan’s told us, there’s no physician and no one else with any medical knowledge. I don’t know much, but perhaps I’ll be able to offer some suggestions that are of help.”

 

“Are you certain?” Athos questioned, disliking the idea of leaving the other man behind.

 

Aramis placed a hand on the older man’s thigh, offering a small smile, “I’m certain.” In a lower voice he continued, “Athos, this is Porthos we’re talking about.”

 

No further explanation was needed as they both worried about their friend’s absence, especially that he was feeling poorly enough that he didn’t come outside to speak with them. “Very well. I’ll return to the garrison and update Treville. You three continue on to Le Mans and I’ll return as soon as I’m able.” The three nodded and turned their mounts to leave. “Aramis,” Athos looked down at the man from his saddle, “I’ll be back in two days.”

 

Aramis nodded his understanding. “Is there anything you need before I depart?” Athos asked. Aramis considered the supplies they’d brought with them and asked the man to leave a portion of his food and water since it didn’t seem that he’d have access to any from the chateau. Athos added a blanket, in case his friend was left camping outside and they clasped hands briefly in solidarity before the older man turned his horse to leave. “Two days, Aramis,” he reminded his friend before riding off.

 

Aramis walked closer to the courtyard wall and called to d’Artagnan, “Is there any chance they’ll allow me to come inside?”

 

The young man disappeared for a moment, no doubt to speak with Bergerac, and returned with a look of dismay on his face. “No, the Captain is steadfast in his commitment to carry out his orders.”

 

Aramis was unsurprised and merely nodded. “Then I will make camp out here. Is there any more information you can share that might help us to find a cure for this fever?”

 

d’Artagnan shrugged but then added, “I have the physician’s notebook – perhaps you’ll see something we’ve missed?”

 

Aramis inclined his head in agreement. “Why don’t you go get it for me and you can give me an update on Porthos at the same time?”

 

The Gascon moved away to do as he’d been asked, while Aramis turned away from the wall and sighed heavily, “Porthos, what have you gotten yourself into this time, my friend.” As he waited, he found a spot where he could camp and began arranging his few supplies to make himself comfortable. 

* * *

When d’Artagnan re-entered Porthos’ room he was gladdened to see two bleary eyes watching him and he offered a small smile, sitting down next to the man. Placing a hand on Porthos’ brow, he asked “How are you feeling?”

 

The weary man offered a small shrug, “Been better, but I’ve also been worse.” At the Gascon’s annoyed look, he added “Not much different from before, to be honest.”

 

“Are you up to eating anything?” the young man prompted.

 

Porthos saw the hopeful look on the boy’s face and didn’t have the heart to say no, “Guess I could try a bit of somethin’.”

 

The smile on the young man’s face widened and he brought a baguette and another cup of tea for his friend. Adding a couple of extra pillows behind Porthos’ back, d’Artagnan handed him the items and sat down expectantly to watch him eat. Porthos managed a small eye roll before remembering how painful that was on his sore head and dutifully took a bite of bread.

 

As Porthos tried to eat, d’Artagnan talked, “Athos and Aramis were here earlier.” Porthos eyed widened at the news. “Apparently Treville sent them to collect us for a mission but we’re still stuck here. The good news is that Athos has ridden back to the garrison to advise Treville, and Aramis is outside the gates, waiting to look through Marceau’s notes.”

 

Porthos heart lifted at the news that they were no longer alone and might soon have some outside help. Knowing Aramis’ propensity to worry, he asked, “How’s Aramis?”

 

“Concerned that you’ve allowed some tiny bug to make you ill,” d’Artagnan teased. Turning serious, he added, “He’s worried and I’m glad he’s here to help.”

 

Porthos nodded, sharing the young man’s feelings. Swallowing the bite he’d been chewing, he put the baguette down as his nausea returned, and sipped on the tea instead. “Any news about the others that are sick?”

 

“No,” d’Artagnan shook his head. “Paulette, one of the maids who’s tending the sick, is feeling about the same as you and I’ve given them the recipes for the tea I’ve been brewing, but there’s really been no change. At least no one else has died.” They could both hear his unspoken _“so far”_.

 

Porthos examined his friend over the top of his cup as he took another drink, noting the paleness of his face and the smudges that were appearing under both eyes. “When was the last time you slept?”

 

d’Artagnan ducked his head, “I’ve managed a few hours.” At his friend’s scowl, he continued, “There will be time enough for sleep once we’ve figured this out and everyone is well again.” It was difficult to argue with the boy’s logic and Porthos knew he’d feel the same if their positions were reversed, so he didn’t press the issue. Draining the cup, he handed it back to d’Artagnan who placed it on the floor next to the bed. “Do you feel like getting up for a bit?” The young man knew that Aramis would feel better if he could see Porthos, but he didn’t want to push his friend if he didn’t feel up to the outing.

 

Porthos considered for a moment, but after several seconds shook his head. He saw the young man’s face fall at his answer and murmured “Sorry.”

 

d’Artagnan squeezed his shoulder in reassurance, “No need to apologize. I told you not to be stoic about how you’re feeling and I’d rather you be honest with me than collapsing and needing me to carry you back to bed. Do you need anything else?”

 

Porthos shook his head again. The Gascon stood, grabbing the physician’s notebook from the table. “I’ll be back shortly; I just need to deliver this to Aramis and see if he has any other questions for me.”

 

As the young man left the room, his face fell. He knew how poorly his friend must be feeling if he didn’t even want to get up to see Aramis. Making his way outside quickly, he scaled the steps leading to the top of the courtyard wall and found Aramis leaning against a tree where he’d decided to camp. When he saw the Gascon appear, Aramis pushed himself off the ground and came closer, positioning himself to catch the book that d’Artagnan tossed to him.

 

“Is there anything else you need right now, Aramis?”

 

Looking up from the book he’d started thumbing through, Aramis replied, “Just an update on Porthos.”

 

“No better but no worse. He managed a few bites of bread and some tea just now and is resting again.” Despite the Gascon’s assurances, both men knew how uncharacteristically the larger man was behaving. “I’ll speak with the Comte and see if he might be willing to allow you in. That is, if you don’t mind not being able to leave again afterwards.”

 

“That would be greatly appreciated,” Aramis admitted with a small quirk of his lips.

 

The Gascon nodded and turned to leave. “Aramis, Porthos will be alright. I’m doing everything I can and I know we’ll figure this out.” Aramis offered another grateful smile as he waved good bye with the book in one hand. “I’ll come back with another update once I’ve spoken with the Comte,” the young man promised.

 

At the young man’s departure, Aramis retook his seat under the tree and began to review the physician’s notes, determined to find something that would help his friends. 

* * *

d’Artagnan stepped from the stairs into the courtyard where Bergerac was waiting, clearly having been keeping an eye on his actions to ensure the Comte’s instructions were being followed. “Captain, I wonder if you might tell me where I can find the Comte?”

 

“I believe he’s in his study,” Bergerac responded. “Do you think your friends will be able to help us?” he asked.

 

The Gascon could see the hope in the man’s eyes and recognized the same need for reassurance that he’d felt earlier. Offering a small grin he said, “Aramis is one of the smartest men I know and our Captain will not leave us to deal with this on our own. I’m confident that we’ll sort this out with their help.”

 

The Captain gave a short nod of thanks as he allowed the young man to leave. d’Artagnan made his way to the Comte’s study, knocking once on the door before receiving permission from within to enter.

 

“Good morning, Comte,” he greeted.

 

“Good morning, d’Artagnan,” the Comte replied as he stood from his desk.

 

The Gascon presented himself in front of the Comte, explaining “I have some news for you. Musketeers arrived at the gates earlier today, intending to take Porthos and me with them for a mission. They were informed by Captain Bergerac of the situation here and a man has returned to Paris to inform our Captain.” The Comte visibly paled at the knowledge that he would no longer be able to keep their situation from the King. “One of the Musketeers, Aramis, has elected to stay and help us identify the cause of everyone’s illness. I have come to ask if you would consider allowing him through the gates so he can better assist me in my investigation.”

 

The Comte seemed to have missed the last part of d’Artagnan’s statement, still focusing on the news that word of their condition would soon be reaching the King. d’Artagnan waited patiently as the man paced several steps and muttered under his breath, distraught at the Musketeer’s update. “Sir?” the Gascon prodded.

 

“This is most distressing,” the man replied. “I had hoped to have kept this to ourselves for now, rather than concerning the King.”

 

“Comte, I’m sure you can appreciate the need for his Majesty to be aware of what’s happening within his borders and the assistance that he can provide once he’s apprised of our circumstances,” d’Artagnan countered. The Comte seemed to grudgingly agree, offering a short nod. “Have any others begun to show symptoms?”

 

The man nodded wearily, “Four others. I had hoped…” he broke off and swallowed. “I had hoped this might be the last of it.”

 

The Gascon tipped his head in understanding. “May I have your permission to have Captain Bergerac open the gates so Aramis might join us?”

 

The other man’s head snapped up at this question and he uttered an immediate, “No. The gates will remain closed. I will not risk anyone else’s wellbeing with whatever is plaguing us.”

 

“But, Comte,” the Gascon started, only to be interrupted.

 

“My word in this is final. The Musketeer may remain outside our walls if he so chooses, but no one will be allowed in or out.” The Comte turned his back on d’Argagnan, moving back to his desk and the young man withdrew at the Comte’s clear dismissal.

 

Once outside the study, with the door firmly closed behind him, d’Artagnan leaned against the wall, tipping his head back in frustration. With Aramis still outside and Porthos unwell, the burden of dealing with things remained firmly on his shoulders. Bringing his head up, the Gascon rubbed tiredly at his eyes, willing the headache that throbbed at his temples to ease, but too little sleep combined with too many hours of troubled thoughts had placed a vice around his head that refused to release. Taking a fortifying breath he pushed away from the wall, making his way upstairs to check on his friend. Hopefully Porthos would be awake and willing to take some more tea; it wasn’t much but d’Artagnan needed to feel like he wasn’t completely helpless.

 

Easing the door open slowly, the Gascon entered the room and saw the larger man curled up on his side, eyes closed. Pouring some hot water from the pot that was now a permanent fixture in the fireplace, he prepared a cup with the herbs Marceau had prescribed and set the mixture aside to steep. When he decided it had sat long enough, he roused Porthos and managed to get the man sitting upright enough to drink.

 

Porthos noticed the slump of his friend’s shoulders and moved over on the bed, motioning for the young man to sit down beside him. Nodding, d’Artagnan asked first, “Can you eat?” While he’d been gone, a tray had appeared on the table, bearing some fresh bread and cheese and a small assortment of fruit. Happily, Porthos agreed and the young man prepared a plate for him before joining his friend on the bed.

 

As Porthos picked at the food, he motioned to d’Artagnan to do the same, “You need to eat too.” d’Artagnan looked at the plate that he held in his lap for his friend and unenthusiastically put a grape in his mouth, his stomach lurching unhappily at the thought of food. “Tell me what’s going on,” Porthos prompted.

 

“Nothing,” the Gascon sighed despairingly. “I haven’t managed to figure out anything more and the Comte is steadfast in his belief that we can’t let anyone in, so Aramis is camped outside the gates, looking through Marceau’s notes. There must be something more we can do.” With these last words, he thumped his head against the wall at his back, sighing deeply in frustration.

 

Porthos gently knocked his shoulder against his friend’s, seeking to reassure him, “Aramis will come up with something, and if he can’t, Athos will bring back help. They’ve never let me down before – they’re not gonna start now.”

 

The Gascon nodded meekly, wanting to believe Porthos’ words but still worried that it might be too little, too late, especially for the man beside him who had already begun to show symptoms. “Look, there’s nothing more we can do right now. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

 

d’Artagnan looked at him, preparing to protest but Porthos raised a hand, interrupting him. “I’m feelin’ better and plan to stay awake for a bit. You won’t be any good to anyone if you run yourself into the ground, so get some rest.”

 

“Alright, I’ll try,” the young man replied, making motions to get up. A hand on his arm aborted the movement.

 

“Plenty of room right here. That way I can keep an eye on things and wake you if anything happens, alright?”

 

d’Artagnan nodded and handed the plate to Porthos with a grin. “You’ll wake me if you need anything?” he confirmed.

 

At Porthos’ nod, the Gascon slid further down onto the bed, laying on his side and closing his eyes, sleep claiming him almost immediately. Porthos settled down beside him, content to finish his meal and watch over the young man who’d been taking care of him since the previous day.

* * *

d’Artagnan awoke slowly to the sound of voices and a shifting on the bed beside him. Opening his eyes, he saw Pinot speaking with Porthos, the latter attempting to rise from the bed.

 

“Porthos, what are you doing?” the young man asked, sitting up.

 

“Pinot says that Aramis is asking for us. I thought I’d let you sleep and go see what he’s found out,” Porthos replied.

 

“That’s fine,” d’Artagnan assured. “I can go see what he wants. Pinot, will you let him know that I’ll be there shortly, please?” Pinot left and d’Artagnan turned to his friend, “Do you want to come along or will you wait here.”

 

It was clear by Porthos’ body language that he was still feeling poorly, but had planned to take d’Artagnan’s place so he could continue resting. Now that the young man was awake, Porthos hesitated, unsure of whether he could manage the trip out to the wall and back. Ultimately, the larger man’s stubbornness made the decision for him, and he said, “I’d like to go with you. It’ll be good to see Aramis.” And good for Aramis to see his friend up and about as well, d’Artagnan thought to himself.

 

The Gascon stood and walked around the bed to Porthos’ side, helping him upright with a stabilizing hand at his elbow. Porthos swayed for a moment as his body adjusted to being vertical and then he shook off the young man’s assistance, moving towards the door. They walked slowly, d’Artagnan remaining at his friend’s side, hovering close enough that he could reach out and grab the man if the need arose. Porthos chuckled as he leaned heavily on the railing that lead down the stairs, “Worse than Aramis, you are.”

 

The Gascon ducked his head in embarrassment but didn’t make any move to leave his friend’s side. When they reached the outside steps that led to the top of the wall, Porthos paused to catch his breath and d’Artagnan stepped forward, concerned about the exertion of their walk. “Are you alright?” he asked in a low voice, knowing that Porthos would not want to show weakness in front of the Comte’s guards.

 

Porthos gave a short nod, “Just need to catch my breath a second.” When he was ready, he began to climb the steps, the Gascon a half-step behind him in case his friend faltered. When they had reached the top, d’Artagnan snugged up against his friend’s side, placing an arm around him.

 

“There’s not much room up here,” d’Artagnan pointed out innocently, offering the poor excuse as the reason for needing to stand so closely. Porthos merely rolled his eyes and called down to their friend.

 

“Aramis, lazing about again I see.”

 

Aramis looked up, a smile lightening his features as he saw his two friends calling to him from the wall. Rising, he walked closer, “From what I understand, it’s you who have been lazing about. I’ve had nothing but this young man’s company,” he looked at d’Artagnan, “and that’s only when he hasn’t been busy waiting on you.”

 

They all recognized the banter for what it was; a sorely needed distraction from the worry they all held about their current situation. As Aramis spoke, he cast a sharp eye over his friend’s features, noting how he leaned on d’Artagnan, the sheen of sweat on his unnaturally pale face, and the overall sense of fatigue that seemed to permeate the man’s entire body. Turning serious, he asked, “How are you feeling, my friend?”

 

Porthos nodded, “Better than I have been. d’Artagnan makes a fine nursemaid and he’s been taking good care of me.” Aramis nodded, grateful that someone else was caring for his brother while he couldn’t.

 

“d’Artagnan, any luck getting the Comte to reconsider his previous position?”

 

“No, I’m sorry, Aramis. I wasn’t able to convince him to let you in. He’s determined to keep the gates closed while we figure out what’s going on,” the young man replied.

 

“No matter. I’ve had time to review Marceau’s notes, what little there was. Keep up with the tea – that seems most promising in the early stages of whatever this is. Has it made any difference to those in the second stage?” Aramis queried.

 

“I’m not sure. I haven’t had time to check back with them since I gave them the instructions last night,” the Gascon informed him guiltily.

 

Aramis nodded, “Check with them once you’ve gotten Porthos to bed and let me know if anyone else has started to show symptoms. I’ve no doubt that Athos will return with a physician and supplies so we’ll just need to keep things under control until then.” d’Artagnan appreciated his friend’s words of encouragement and tipped his head in understanding. “I’m going to go for a ride and talk with some of the farmers around here to see if there’s anything more to be learned.”

 

“Is there anything else we can do in the meantime?” the young man asked.

 

“No, just make sure Porthos behaves himself – you know what a terrible patient he can be,” Aramis teased. “I’ll have one of the guards fetch you when I return so we can compare findings.”

 

d’Artagnan gave Aramis a small wave as he manoeuvred the two of them off the wall, noticing how quiet his friend was and how much more of Porthos’ weight he was now supporting. The large man was breathing heavily by the time they’d returned to the room and he collapsed gratefully onto the bed. “Oi, I hate this,” he declared.

 

Wordlessly, the Gascon helped Porthos get settled on the bed, offering him a drink of water before he closed his eyes and fell asleep. d’Artagnan stood watching his friend for several minutes, worried at how quickly the man had weakened. He felt tired as well and his headache from earlier had barely eased, making him long to lay down and rest, but his duty to his friends had him swallowing a quick drink and exiting the room instead.  

 

He made his way to the sick room, rapping on the door and preparing himself for the stench that would escape once it opened. Giselle greeted him, as she had the day before.

 

“Giselle, I’ve come to see how your patients are doing today. Have any improved from drinking the teas I suggested?”

 

The girl looked sad as she replied, “No, Monsieur, there has been no change.”

 

d’Artagnan pressed at his eyes, willing the throbbing in his skull to abate. “What about Paulette – how is she today?”

 

“It is as we feared, Monsieur, she is now among the sick.”

 

“So,” d’Artagnan calculated, “that makes six people in all?” At Giselle’s nod, the young man sighed. “Thank you Giselle.” As he made to turn and leave, the maid’s hand on his arm stopped him.

 

“Monsieuir, I do not mean to be forward, but are you alright?” the young girl scrutinized the Musketeer carefully, not missing his sallow complexion and the fine lines of pain around his eyes.

 

Dredging up a small smile, d’Artagnan assured her, “I’m fine, Giselle, thank you for your concern.”

 

Giselle offered a tentative smile and withdrew into the room. In truth, d’Artagnan felt much less than fine, and having nothing more to do until Aramis’ return, he rejoined Porthos. Wrapping himself in a warm blanket and sitting on a chair next to the bed, he leaned back and closed his eyes, wishing for a few hours’ relief.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d’Artagnan locked gazes with Pinot at their discovery; Aramis had been right and this was very, very bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for their comments and kudos. Enjoy this next chapter!

It was late into the night when d’Artagnan was roused by Pinot’s arrival, informing him of Aramis’ return. To his surprise, he noticed a half-eaten plate of food on the table, a clear sign that someone had brought dinner and that Porthos had been awake earlier. The Gascon’s headache had eased slightly, but he still had little appetite, his stomach soured by the anxiety he felt. Knowing that not eating was not an option, he forced himself to finish a small piece of bread, washing it down with a cup of water before he headed outside to speak with this friend.

 

When he reached the top of the wall, he was grateful that lanterns had been lit to cast away some of the shadows, allowing him to barely make out Aramis’ face below. The Musketeer looked tired from his hours of riding and wasted no time in asking for an update. “What did you manage to find out?”

 

“There are six people showing second stage symptoms, but no one else has succumbed; four others are newly ill. The tea hasn’t helped any of those in the sick room, but at least it doesn’t seem to be hurting any. Aramis,” d’Artagnan looked pleadingly at this friend, “please tell me you have some idea of what might be causing this.”

 

Aramis hated to admit that he didn’t know anything more, but his ride around the countryside had offered little information of value. “The people I spoke with are familiar with the symptoms and some have been suffering as well, but no one seems to know what is causing it. The only thing that people were able to agree upon is that this is a relatively recent occurrence.”

 

The Gascon nodded, realizing that his friend was doing everything he could to help and he could see the same frustration he felt reflected in the older man’s eyes. “It’s alright, Aramis, we knew this puzzle would be a difficult one to solve. Why don’t you get some rest and we’ll talk in the morning. Perhaps a good night’s sleep with clear our minds and offer some new ideas.”

 

Aramis nodded and was about to bid the young man good night when d’Artagnan paused, “Aramis, you said this illness was recent. How long ago did people start getting sick?”

 

“My best estimate based on what those I spoke with and Marceau’s notes is approximately two weeks.”

 

The young man nodded thoughtfully and bid his friend a good night, leaving the wall and making his way back to the chateau. Inside the main entryway, he spotted Pinot and called out to the man. “Pinot, have you any recollection of when exactly people began to feel ill?”

 

The man thought for a moment before answering confidently, “No more than two weeks ago.”

 

His answer matched what Aramis had found, and d’Artagnan bit his lip as he considered how that piece of information helped. “Did anything happen two weeks ago?” At Pinot’s confused look, he added, “Anything that was out of the ordinary. New people visiting the chateau, a change in your food stocks, anything.”

 

Pinot shook his head, not recalling anything unusual. “Please, think again. It may be something small that you think is unrelated. Even the most mundane could provide a clue to what’s been happening.”

 

Pinot offered hesitantly, “We had a bad storm at the chateau, but that was closer to three weeks ago, not two.” At d’Artagnan’s encouraging glace, he continued, “It was quite fierce, smashing some windows and even blowing the lid from the well. The Comte was concerned about the damage since it was so close to festival, and worried that we might not be able to repair everything in time.”

 

“Thank you, Pinot.” The man nodded in acknowledgement while d’Artagnan considered the potential importance of what he’d been told, climbing the staircase to Porthos’ room. He couldn’t explain it, but he had a feeling that what Pinot had shared held an important clue, but his mind was too foggy to pull the pieces together. Resolving to take his own advice to Aramis, he returned to the room, determined to get some proper rest so he and Aramis could figure things out in the morning.

* * *

d’Artagnan awoke early the next day, feeling somewhat refreshed after sleeping through the night. Porthos had also slept well and the Gascon decided to leave him be until he’d returned from talking with Aramis. He splashed water over his face and neck, drying quickly before heading outside.

 

Aramis was already up and had been waiting for his friend’s arrival, rising immediately from beneath the tree where he’d camped and moving closer so they could speak. “I think I may have some important information, but I’m having trouble figuring out exactly why.” At Aramis’ encouraging gaze, he explained, “I asked Pinot if anything unusual had occurred before people started getting sick and he said there was a storm three weeks ago. From the sounds of it, it was quite severe, breaking some windows and blowing the lid off their well. I don’t know why, but my gut tells me this is important. Does this mean anything to you?”

 

Aramis’ face turned pensive and he began to pace slowly as he considered the young man’s words. There was something in the back of his mind that was tugging at him, a memory, half-remembered that he sensed could shed some light on what was happening. d’Artagnan knew immediately when his friend was struck by an idea, the man’s posture straightening as he moved back to the wall with purposeful strides. “Check the well,” Aramis ordered.

 

The Gascon frowned at his friend’s statement, confusion clear on his face. “What do you mean, check the well?”

 

“There was a story,” Aramis clarified, hands moving with nervous energy as he spoke, “a village to the west. People fell ill from a mysterious illness that none could explain. Everyone perished but when they returned months later to see what could be salvaged, they supposedly found an animal carcass in the dried-up well. Some speculated that this was the cause of the illness.” Aramis pinned his friend with a hard look, “Is there any way to check the chateau’s water supply? Perhaps something similar happened while the well was uncovered?”

 

d’Artagnan nodded his head, excited at the possibility of finally acting and being able to identify the source of everyone’s illness. “I’ll find a way.” He turned to leave, “I’ll be back as soon as I can to let you know what I’ve found.” He hurried back down to the courtyard, nearly stumbling at the bottom as he felt a wave of dizziness. He braced himself against the wall, waiting for his head to clear, berating himself again for not having eaten more to keep up his strength. When he felt steady, he pushed away from the wall and moved swiftly into the house to seek help.

 

He found a servant in the entryway sweeping the floor and asked the woman to fetch Pinot. Soon, the man was in front of him and d’Artagnan explained Aramis’ theory, asking if there was anything that could be used to check the condition of the well. Pinot quickly organized two men and held a bundle in his hands, motioning for d’Artagnan to follow him out to the well. Once there, the two men he’d brought began to prepare a rope that could be used to lower the Gascon down, while Pinot presented his bundle to the young man.

 

“It’s a fishing net,” he explained. “The Comte spent some time at sea and this was in his chest of supplies from his last voyage. Is it satisfactory for your needs?” Pinot asked hopefully.

 

As the young man examined the tightly woven netting, he gave a nod, “Yes, I think this will work fine. Will these men be alright to lower me down and bear my weight while I dredge the bottom?”

 

Pinot inclined his head, “These are two of our stoutest; I’m confident that their strength is sufficient for the task.”

 

The Gascon took the loose end of the rope, wrapping it around his torso, under his arms, and tying it securely at this chest. As he worked, he asked, “How deep is the well?”

 

Pinot looked uncertain, “Many meters, but exactly how far down it goes, I do not know.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded, “Then it’s likely to be dark down there.” A look of understanding crossed Pinot’s face and he directed one of the men to fetch a lantern, while the Gascon wound the net around his body, since his hands would be full during his descent.

 

As the young man took the lantern, Pinot looked at him solemnly, “Good luck, Monsieur. We will be waiting for your word to pull you to safety when you’ve finished.”

 

The Gascon sat down on the lip of the well, swinging his legs around to dangle inside; bracing himself with his free hand, he gave the men a short nod to begin lowering him down. As he descended, d’Artagnan was grateful at having had the foresight to bring a lantern as the light from above was lost after only a couple meters. He let out an involuntary shiver as the temperature dropped, the earth around him turning cold the deeper he went. For a moment, he feared that the rope they’d used wouldn’t be long enough but then he saw the telltale reflection of water beneath him and he quickly called up for the men to stop before he found himself immersed. He hung suspended a few scant inches above the water and moved the lantern around to examine the sides of the well. Seeing nothing, he carefully unwound the netting from around his chest and, holding tight to one end, began to drag it through the water beneath him.

 

Another spike of concern hit him as he considered whether the net would be large enough to reach the bottom, but he pushed the feeling aside, determined to focus on the job at hand. He made several passes through the water, laboriously lifting the net each time to see if anything was trapped in its fibres, but nothing appeared. The young man was chilled as the water from the netting soaked his clothes and his arms ached with the heaviness of the netting, but he persevered, his faith in Aramis’ theory driving him on.

 

As he dragged the net again, he felt a pull that he hadn’t felt on his previous passes and he hurriedly pulled the netting out of the water. In the dim light cast by the lantern it was difficult to tell what he’d found so he called up to the men holding him to pull him up. The trip up seemed much longer than the trip down and d’Artagnan kept his body close to the rope, bracing himself with his feet against the walls of the well to prevent himself from being dragged against the muddy sides.

 

When his head was level with the top of the well, he pushed the netting up, allowing one of the men to take it from him. Next came the lantern and then he found a hand in front his face, which he grasped, and he was heaved the rest of the way out. Breathing heavily from a combination of exertion and uneasiness at having been in the cold, dark space, the Gascon took several moments to compose himself before moving to examine the netting.

 

Pinot, it seemed, had no such excuse and already had the men spreading the netting on the ground, revealing d’Artagnan’s prize. Caught in the fine webbing lay the partly decomposed remains of a raven, its head discernable only by its beak which lay atop a mass of black feathers. d’Artagnan locked gazes with Pinot at their discovery; Aramis had been right and this was very, very bad.

* * *

d’Artagnan had staggered to his feet, automatically moving toward the courtyard wall to reveal to Aramis what he’d found, while Pinot moved in the opposite direction to advise the Comte. The Gascon only managed a few steps before he felt bile rising in his throat and he detoured off to one side where some bushes grew, falling to his knees and gagging as his stomach rebelled at what he’d found. Swiping a shaky hand across his mouth, d’Artagnan pushed himself to his feet and finished his trip to the wall, leaning on it as he climbed the steps to the top so he could speak with his friend.

 

It seemed that Aramis was waiting impatiently for his return, and he stopped pacing as soon as he spotted the young man, waiting anxiously to hear what he’d found. “It was a raven,” the young man declared. “Badly decomposed.”

 

Aramis swore under his breath as he scrubbed a hand through his hair. “This is no doubt the cause of the illness, which means that there’s nothing contagious but you must stop drinking the water.”

 

The Gascon’s stomach gave another uncomfortable lurch at the memory of the many cups of water he’d consumed, having given up wine in favor of water on their first night at the chateau. “Will that be enough for everyone to get better?” he asked.

 

The elder man shook his head, “No, the damage is done but there must be a way that those afflicted can be nursed back to health. Have there been any changes since last night?”

 

“I’m not sure,” the young man admitted. “I haven’t been round to the sick room or to speak with the Comte, and Porthos was still asleep when I left. I’ll check on Porthos first and then go speak with the Comte about opening the gates now that we know this isn’t the fever.”

 

“Good,” Aramis agreed. “Let him know that everyone should drink only wine or water that has been well-boiled. That’s probably why the tea was effective for a while with those who got sick.” The Gascon gave a nod in understanding, readying himself to leave. “d’Artagnan, how are you doing?” Aramis questioned. He watched the minute shivers that racked the young man’s frame and noted how pale and gaunt he seemed compared to a few days ago when they’d parted.

 

The Gascon managed a small smile at his friend’s concern, “I’m fine, Aramis, it’s Porthos who needs your worry, not me.”

 

The older man raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the man’s statement, but allowed it, knowing that the sooner the young man spoke to the Comte, the sooner he would be allowed inside to check on his friends properly. “I’ll be back shortly,” the Gascon stated, disappearing back into the chateau’s courtyard while Aramis settled down again to wait.

 

d’Artagnan strode swiftly across the courtyard, squinting at the glare of the sun that made his head throb anew. He paused for a moment upon entering the chateau, having caught sight of the state of his muddy and damp clothes, but decided that time was more important than the spotlessness of the Comte’s floors. Entering Porthos’ room he was happy to see his friend sitting at the table, sipping from a cup. Striding forward before even consciously aware of his actions, he grabbed the cup from Porthos’ hand.

 

“What was that for?” the larger man frowned at him.

 

“Don’t drink the water,” the Gascon ordered somewhat breathlessly.

 

Porthos’ eyes narrowed as he examined the man in front of him, “You figured something out.”

 

The Gascon nodded as he began stripping out of his dirty clothes. “Aramis recalled a story about a village that got sick because their well had a dead animal in it.” He moved to the water basin, considering for a moment before pouring fresh water in, deciding that it was only dangerous if consumed. As he washed, he continued, “I went fishing in the Comte’s well and found a decomposed bird. It’s not the fever, Porthos, it was the bird making everyone sick.” He rubbed at his chest and arms to remove the last of the water before pulling on a clean shirt. “That’s why you can’t drink it. I’m going to see the Comte now to open the gates.”

 

“You’ve been busy,” Porthos allowed with a fond grin.

 

The Gascon returned the smile and fell to one knee before his friend, placing a hand on the man’s thigh, “We’ll be able to figure this out now. Athos will be back today with a physician and you’ll get better.”

 

Porthos saw how incredibly young his friend looked at that moment and how desperately he needed to believe that everything would be alright. He ruffled the boy’s hair as he agreed, “Of course it will. Didn’t I tell you that they wouldn’t let us down?”

 

The young man rose, intending to speak with the Comte. “Do you want to come with me to speak with the Comte?”

 

“Nah, as soon as the gates open, we’ll have our hands full with Aramis. I’d better have a bite to eat before he gets here or he’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

 

The Gascon nodded and left, heading directly to the Comte’s study, since it seemed to be the man’s favorite sanctuary. As he approached, he could hear voices from inside, so he knocked and entered, finding not only the Comte, but Bergerac and Pinot, obviously discussing the results of d’Artagnan’s morning outing.

 

“Ah, d’Artagnan, I just heard what happened,” the Comte offered a smile, “this is indeed good news.”

 

“Well, perhaps not good news since people are still sick, but it does mean we can open the gates and accept aid.” At the Comte’s nod of agreement, the young man pressed, “So you’ll order the Captain to allow Aramis inside and permit others to leave if they desire?”

 

The man seemed to hesitate for a moment, glancing at both the Captain and Pinot, before nodding his head. “Yes, it seems there’s nothing more to be gained by keeping the gate barred. You believe that aid will be arriving from Paris?”

 

“I’m certain of it. Athos rode back to the garrison yesterday and I’m sure that he’ll return as quickly as possible to provide assistance. In the meantime, I’ll bring Aramis inside so he can have a look at Porthos and perhaps examine Marceau’s rooms to see if I’ve missed anything that might help,” d’Artagnan confirmed.

 

The Comte looked surprised as he processed the Musketeer’s words, “Your friend, Porthos, he is sick?”

 

Hiding his resentment at the fact that the other man hadn’t even noticed Porthos’ absence, he responded, “Yes, he took ill two days ago.”

 

“Ah, then you should go look after him,” the Comte suggested.

 

“Yes, as soon as you’ve given the orders to the Captain to open the gates,” the Gascon reminded him.

 

The Captain looked enquiringly at the Comte who gave a wave of approval. The Captain motioned to d’Artagnan to follow him and the two men left together. As they walked, Bergerac asked, “Do you really think your friends will be able to help?”

 

The Gascon nodded, “I have the utmost faith in them; they will not let us down.”

 

Bergerac gave the order for the gates to be opened and d’Artagnan passed through immediately, being caught in an enthusiastic hug by Aramis as soon as he was through. When they’d pulled apart, Aramis kept his hands on the young man’s arms, casting an inquisitive eye over him. “You don’t look good,” he finally stated.

 

The Gascon rolled his eyes, “You wouldn’t look good either if you had been dealing with everything that’s been happening inside these walls.”

 

Aramis moved a hand to the young man’s brow before he could pull away, frowning at what he found. “You’re warm.”

 

d’Artagnan pulled away, annoyed, “I’m warm because I’ve been running between this bloody wall, Porthos’ room, which is on the third floor, by the way, and the Comte’s study.”

 

The elder man continued to hold the Gascon’s arms, not willing to accept his excuses, “d’Artagnan, this important. Are you certain that you’re well? Have you been drinking the water?”

 

Again, the many cups of water he’d drunk flitted across his memory. “Well, yes, I have been, but I haven’t been sick like Porthos.”

 

“Are you certain?” Aramis prompted. “Any nausea, headaches, chills or weakness? Have you been tired to the point where you can’t seem to catch up?”

 

The Gascon thought over the past couple of days, recalling the many hours he’d slept due to the overwhelming fatigue that had plagued him; the headache that he couldn’t seem to rid himself of, no matter how much he slept; how chilled he been the previous night when he’d wrapped himself tightly in a blanket and the bout of sickness he’d experienced after exiting the well. “Yes, but it was caused by lack of sleep and the anxiety of dealing with the situation. I’m not sick…am I?”

 

Aramis squeezed the young man’s arm, saying, “If it is truly nothing, then these symptoms should disappear now that I’m here to help. Let’s not worry about it too much for now, but you must promise that you won’t hide from me how you’re feeling. Agreed?” The Gascon nodded. “Good. Now let me gather my things and you can take me to see Porthos.” As the older man turned to gather his belongings, the young man felt another shiver and wondered if he, too, might be among those now at risk due to the tainted water they’d discovered.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look of concern sat on the large man’s face as he whispered, “He’s sick too, isn’t he?”  
> Aramis met his gaze and nodded. “I don’t think he realized while he was busy looking after you, but his symptoms seem clear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those of you who have taken the time to comment and leave kudos. I hope you enjoy this next chapter.

d’Artagnan led the way inside, Aramis gratefully handing his steed off to the stable boy as they passed. Within the chateau’s main entryway, the Gascon paused briefly to introduce Aramis to Pinot before hurrying up the stairs to see Porthos. Aramis swept through the doors of the room with the fury of a small tornado, setting his sights firmly on his sick friend, pausing only to toss his belongings to one side as he moved to Porthos’ side. The large man stood immediately, fully expecting to have his arms full of an overly-concerned Aramis and he was not disappointed. After embracing the man, Aramis pulled back to examine his friend, huffing in dissatisfaction at what he saw. Porthos merely rolled his eyes at his friend’s overprotective nature, “I’m actually feelin’ better than I was before, you know.”

 

“Hmm,” Aramis hummed in disbelief.

 

“Really, I am. Ask the boy if you don’t believe me,” Porthos suggested.

 

Aramis huffed again. “I can’t even trust d’Artagnan to be honest about how _he’s_ feeling, so why should I trust him to tell me how you’re doing?”

 

Porthos’ head snapped up at this comment, seeking out the Gascon who hovered near the door. “What’s he talking about?” he demanded.

 

“It’s nothing, Porthos. You know how Aramis is. I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather due to a lack of sleep and my concern for you and he’s blown things out of proportion,” the young man responded.

 

Porthos’ gaze moved to Aramis instead, silently questioning the accuracy of d’Artagnan’s words. Aramis gave a slight shrug, indicating his uncertainty, and Porthos looked back at the younger man.

 

“If you’re not feelin’ well then you’d better be honest with us about it,” the larger man stated.

 

“I know,” the Gascon replied, catching Aramis’ eye, “I’ve already promised Aramis I wouldn’t hide anything from him.”

 

Porthos seemed satisfied and Aramis drew up a chair, placing it in front of his larger friend so he could do a proper examination. Placing a hand on the man’s brow, he asked, “How are you feeling now?”

 

Allowing the contact, Porthos offered an amused grin, “I’m feelin’ better than I was. I managed some food last night and this mornin’, and it’s stayed down. My head hurts less too and I’ve been able to stay awake longer.”

 

Removing his hand, Aramis gave a slight nod, “You seem better and you’re not very warm. I’d hazard that your fever is very slight at this point and you’ll probably feel completely cured in a day or two.” Aramis turned his attention to d’Artagnan, waving him over to the third chair. “And how about you?”

 

d’Artagnan gave the man an unbelieving look, “Aramis, we’ve only just arrived back in the room. How much could have possibly changed during the walk from the wall to here?” But his friend was not so easily put off, so the Gascon offered, “My headache is unchanged and my stomach is still unsettled from finding the bird’s carcass earlier. I’m tired too, but I told you that I haven’t had a great deal of sleep over the past few days.”

 

Humming noncommittally, Aramis attempted to feel the young man’s forehead, but the boy flinched away from Aramis’ touch. “I promised I would tell you how I’m feeling and I just did. If anything changes, you’ll be the first to know,” d’Artagnan assured.

 

It wasn’t what Aramis was hoping for, but he’d been exposed to the young man’s stubbornness in the past and knew it was best to bide his time. Placing his hands on his thighs, he made to stand, asking “Where is the sick room?” He paused at Porthos’ touch, looking inquiringly as the larger man.

 

“Athos?”

 

Aramis dipped his head in understanding, “I expect him back tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest. You know how seriously he takes the welfare of his friends,” his lips quirked into an affectionate smile.

 

Porthos removed his hand and shifted his gaze to d’Artagnan, who took his cue from the man. “Come on, Aramis, I’ll show you to the sick room. Best prepare yourself – it’s not pretty,” the Gascon admitted.

 

As Aramis stood, he turned back to his other brother, “Will you be alright here?”

 

Porthos huffed out a small laugh, “Go on, you mother hen you, go and see to the folks who really need your help.”

 

With that, the two Musketeers left, descending down one floor and moving to the end of the long hallway to the last room. Giving Aramis a meaningful look to ask if he was ready, the Gascon knocked and waited for the door to open. When Giselle presented herself at the door, she looked haggard, clearly suffering under the toll of caring for her charges.

 

The Gascon greeted her politely, “Good morning, Giselle. This is my friend, Aramis. We’re here to find out how your patients are doing?”

 

The girl returned d’Artagnan’s greeting, her eyes dancing over the other man’s features momentarily before returning her gaze to the Gascon. “Monsieur, I am sad to say there is no good news today. Two died last night and I fear a third will soon follow.”

 

d’Artagnan traded glances with Aramis, the latter taking a half step forward to gain the girl’s attention. “Mademoiselle, have you received word about not drinking the water?” Giselle nodded, biting her lip.

 

“Is this the fate that awaits us all, Monsieur?” the girl asked fearfully.

 

Aramis rushed to reassure her, offering one of his most charming smiles, “Of course not, Mademoiselle, my friends and I will figure things out long before we allow any harm to come to you.” As he’d hoped, he received a shy smile in return.

 

Tipping his hat to the young lady he said, “My friend and I will return when we know more. In the meantime, we won’t interrupt the important work you’re doing.” Taking hold of d’Artagnan’s arm he turned them to move away from the room. When sufficient distance had passed, he lowered his voice, “This is likely to get worse before it gets any better.”

 

The Gascon’s heart dropped at this friend’s words, but deep down he’d known that the road ahead of them would be a difficult one. Finding the source of everyone’s illness had been the first step, but they still had no idea how to treat those affected. As they reached the end of the hall, d’Artagnan turned to his friend, “What do we do now?”

 

Grasping him by the elbow, Aramis steered the young man up the stairs to the third floor. “Now, you have something proper to eat and then get some sleep. There’s not much to be done until Athos arrives and if you _are_ sick, then you’ll need both to regain your strength.” The young man didn’t protest, which spoke loudly of his discomfort and Aramis filed this piece of information away, committing to keep a much closer eye on the boy throughout the day.

 

Porthos was still sitting at the table when they returned and could tell right away that Aramis was concerned for their young friend. He patted the chair next to him, saying to d’Artagnan, “We’ve just received some fresh food. Come take a seat and have some.” Aramis, with his hand still on the boy’s arm, guided him over to the chair and gently pushed him into the seat.

 

Meanwhile, Porthos loaded a plate and pushed it toward the young man. The Gascon looked at the plate unenthusiastically, but dutifully placed a small piece of bread in his mouth, chewing slowly, then swallowing with difficulty.

 

“Aramis, there’s water boilin’ in the pot over there, and the herbs d’Artagnan’s been using are in those bags. Perhaps you could make us some tea?” Porthos requested.

 

Aramis moved to do so, preparing two cups and bringing them back to the table to steep. The young man had managed another bite as Aramis worked and was now staring at the plate with unfocused eyes. Both men noted the sheen of sweat that dotted his brow and the slow open and close of his eyes.

 

Pulling on the young man’s arm, Aramis suggested, “Why don’t you move to the bed instead? I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable there.”

 

d’Artagnan was pliant as the older man walked him to the bed and then sat him down on the edge, removing first his doublet and then his boots, before lifting his legs up. Placing several pillows behind the boy’s back, he cautioned, “No sleeping yet.” He returned to the table to collect one of the cups of tea and offered it to the boy, steadying his hand when it shook slightly as he lifted the cup to his lips. Aramis ensured the cup was drained before taking it from the boy’s hands and then removed one of the pillows so the young man could recline further. As d’Artagnan’s head dipped into the soft pillow, his eyes slipped close and Aramis covered him with a blanket before retreating to sit with Porthos.

 

A look of concern sat on the large man’s face as he whispered, “He’s sick too, isn’t he?”

 

Aramis met his gaze and nodded. “I don’t think he realized while he was busy looking after you, but his symptoms seem clear.”

 

“Dammit,” Porthos swore under his breath. “I was hopin’ he’d been spared. It’s my fault, you know.” At Aramis’ inquiring look, he explained. “Our first night here, the boy drank a fair bit of wine. I didn’t want him to embarrass himself so I told him to switch to water. Think that’s all he’s been drinking since.”

 

Aramis covered Porthos’ arm with his hand, “You could not have known and you should not feel guilty for providing such sound advice. Had this been any other situation, the boy would have benefitted from your guidance rather than suffering for it.” Porthos seemed unconvinced and hung his head in despair. Squeezing his friend’s arm, Aramis stood. “Come, you’re still recovering as well and need your rest. Finish your tea and then to bed with you.”

 

Porthos offered a rueful grin but did as he’d been asked, allowing his friend to assist him to bed and even to tuck him in. “Rest,” Aramis patted Porthos’ shoulder, “I’ll watch over you both.”

* * *

Athos had ridden hard back to Paris, driving his horse nearly to the point of exhaustion until it was covered in flecks of foam and sweat, before his mind reasserted itself and he stopped for a few hours’ rest. Had he had the option to swap horses instead, he would have pushed through without pause, but the road he was on was a solitary one, with farms and the odd village branching off other roads that eventually merged with the one he currently travelled. His determination brought him through the garrison gates near midnight with both mount and rider breathing heavily from the exertion of their trip.

 

Swinging a leg over the horse’s neck, Athos slipped off the horse almost before it came to a full stop, handing the reins off to a startled stable boy who’d been roused from his slumber by the hoof beats as the Musketeer entered the courtyard. Taking no time to pause and catch his breath, Athos stormed up the stairs to Treville’s office, taking the steps two at a time and pulling himself up with a hand on the rail. He rapped his knuckles firmly against Treville’s door but didn’t wait to be allowed entry, simply opening the door and walking directly inside without invitation. The Captain was fortunately still up and was half-standing from his desk, surprised at the abrupt invasion of his space.

 

It was clear by the look on Athos’ face that the man was clearly troubled and Treville wasted no time with pleasantries, “Athos, what’s happened?”

 

Taking a steadying breath, Athos began his report, “Fever has struck the lands of de Chartres. When we arrived, the Comte’s chateau was heavily barred and guarded by his men, allowing no one to enter or exit. Aramis is camped outside the gates in an effort to help as best he can and I sent the other three to complete the mission in Le Mans. We must gather supplies and a physician and return as soon as possible.”

 

The Captain’s brow furrowed as he contemplated the implications of what he’d just heard. Fevers were deadly and to be avoided at all costs; when they spread, they left behind a swath of dead bodies and land that was considered uninhabitable for several years. If this was the start of another wave of illness, the King would need to be advised and the infected would need to be isolated to curb the spread of the deadly sickness.

 

Taking a deep breath the Captain nodded, "I will go immediately to apprise the King. He will be unhappy about being roused at this hour but this news cannot wait. I’ll get his Majesty to provide the necessary supplies to provide aid to the Comte and arrange for a physician and some other men to accompany you.” He cast a critical eye over the Musketeer, noting the droop of his shoulders and the general fatigue that seemed to hang over the man like a cloak. “Get something to eat and then some rest. You’ll leave at first light and it’ll be another long day of riding for you.”

 

Athos nodded his head, grateful that the Captain had not even tried to suggest that he not accompany the group back to the chateau. Turning on his heel, he made a quick stop by the kitchen to collect some bread and cheese and two bottles of wine, before retiring to his rooms to where he spent several hours drinking in order to settle his mind enough to sleep.

* * *

As Porthos continued to improve throughout the day, d’Artagnan seemed to decline in turn. Where Porthos had slept comfortably for a couple of hours before rising to eat, the Gascon slept fitfully, troubled by a continued fever, and refused to do more than drink the tea that Aramis continued to press on him. The day was now shifting to night, the sun just having set, and Aramis and Porthos were both seated at the table, troubled by their young friend’s condition and the swiftness of his deterioration.

 

Aramis scrubbed a hand across his face, leaving it to tug at his wild curls, any semblance of order having been lost during the many hours he’d spent at the young man’s side, watching helplessly as he was unable to turn the tide against the illness that now gripped him tightly in its grasp. He had returned to Marceau’s notebook several times, hoping to glean new information from its pages, but was disappointed time after time. When Porthos had awoken, he’d visited Marceau’s room, looking through every herb bag, vial and bottle for anything that might help their young friend, but to no avail. The worry had now caught up to the man and he looked nearly as bad as his ill friends.

 

Porthos had allowed his friend to fret for long enough and with a small huff he said, “That’s enough.” Reaching a hand across, he closed the notebook laying on the table in front of Aramis. “You’re looking worse than us at this point and Athos will throw a fit if he finds you’ve managed to make yourself sick.”

 

Tugging again at his hair, Aramis looked despairingly at his friend, “But there must be something that we can do. Perhaps something we’ve missed. An herb or a draught? Maybe a poultice of some sort to draw the fever out?”

 

Porthos shook his head firmly, “If there is, you won’t discover it by tormenting yourself with that notebook. You’ve read Marceau’s notes so many times, it’s a wonder you can’t recite the words by memory. Besides,” he said as Aramis made to protest, “you won’t figure anything out when you’re so tired you’re nearly dead on your feet.”

 

Aramis flinched at Porthos’ use of the word dead and the larger man mumbled, “Sorry, bad choice of words. But you know what I mean. Athos will likely return tomorrow and you’ll need to have your wits about you. So, food first and then bed.”

 

Aramis grimaced at the cooling and partially congealed stew that Porthos pushed over to him and reached instead for some bread and cheese. Porthos looked apologetic and nodded approvingly that his friend was at least eating. “d’Artagnan’s room is next door and I’d have to say it’s hardly been used. You can sleep there once you’ve finished,” Porthos suggested.

 

“Are you sure,” Aramis queried between bites, “I could stay with d’Artagnan while you sleep in the other room?”

 

“No, I’ve been able to nap here and there throughout the day, but you haven’t and I’m betting you didn’t sleep well last night either, camping outside. You get a proper sleep tonight, in a real bed, and tomorrow you can do what you want. Tonight, I’ll bed in here and look after the boy.”

 

“Very well,” Aramis acquiesced, “but you’ll fetch me if you need me, yes?” Porthos tipped his head in agreement. “Then I shall bid you good night, my friend, and thank you” he said as he stood.

 

“’Night Aramis,” the large man replied as he stood also. The day had been a long one and, although it had been broken up for him by a couple of naps and even a short excursion outside to wander in the sunshine, Porthos was tired and ready for sleep as well. He rolled softly into the bed next to the Gascon and watched his friend for several minutes until his eyes closed of their own volition and he drifted off to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aramis, if you have another way then I’ll gladly hear it. What I won’t do is sit idly by as our friends weaken and watch them die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments and kudos on the last chapter. Hope this one meets everyone's expectations!

The sunny day belied its intentions, not bringing warmth or joy to anyone residing at the chateau. Giselle’s prediction that another patient would soon pass came to fruition and by late afternoon, two others were relegated to the girl’s care. For his part, Aramis had awoken somewhat refreshed although his dreams had been twice disturbed by images of his friends’ deaths. Fortunately he’d managed enough hours that he could think clearly again and, after taking care of his morning ablutions, he made his way directly to the room next door to check on his brothers.

 

Porthos was already awake, sitting next to the Gascon with a hand on the boy’s arm. “How is he?” Aramis whispered.

 

Porthos offered a one-sided shrug, taking care not to shake the bed and disturb his friend. “He slept some, but not deeply. Took to mumbling in his sleep a few hours ago but seemed to settle down a bit when he realized he wasn’t alone,” Porthos indicated to his hand. “Tried to check his fever and it feels pretty much the same to me.”

 

Aramis stepped forward, placing his own hand on the boy’s brow and frowned. “I had hoped he’d be feeling better by now since his symptoms seemed to appear shortly after yours. I’m not sure why this seems to be affecting him differently.”

 

“Is it because he drank more water?” Porthos questioned.

 

“Possibly; I wouldn’t have thought so but in the absence of another explanation, that one will do as well as any other.” Aramis stood up again to address his friend, “Have you eaten?”

 

Porthos shook his head and Aramis moved to brew two cups of tea. “Once I have these steeping, I’ll head to the kitchen to see what I can find. Then we’ll need to wake him and get something into him, otherwise his stomach will continue to feel upset because of the lack of food rather than this illness, and I shudder to think what Athos will do to us both if we haven’t taken proper care of him.”

 

Aramis had brought back breakfast and the two men roused the young Gascon enough to drink the tea before returning to sleep. Later in the day, Aramis again ventured out and brought back news of the most recent death and Giselle’s additional patients, and while he shared the news with Porthos, the two friends worked together to again wake their youngest brother. d’Artagnan woke slowly, looking up at them with bleary eyes before being reminded that Athos would likely return that day. The anticipation of his mentor’s arrival seemed to galvanize the boy and he managed to get up with only a little help from Aramis, and to eat a little before again drinking the tea that had been prepared for him.

 

As he swallowed the last dregs, he pushed the cup away saying, “Ugh, I’m really starting to hate tea. Can’t I have some wine instead?”

 

The pout on the boy’s face was enough to place a smile on his friends’ faces as Aramis declined his request, “You’ve not eaten enough to start drinking wine. Besides, the tea seems to be helping so we’ll continue on with it until we’ve something better to take its place.”

 

The Gascon looked down at his lap, “Do you think we’ll find something that will help?”

 

Aramis placed a finger on the boy’s chin, forcing him to look up, “Of course we will, have you ever known us to fail when it really matters?”

 

Porthos placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “Listen to ‘im, he knows what he’s talking about. Athos will be here later and we’ll get this sorted in no time.”

 

The two older Musketeers shared a look over the young man’s head, neither one nearly as confident as they appeared, but also unwilling to lose hope until all avenues had been exhausted. Fortunately, they didn’t have long to flounder in their dark thoughts as a knock on their door brought news of Athos’ arrival. All three men moved to meet their friend and while Aramis’ face told of his disagreement with d’Artagnan’s decision to accompany them, he allowed it.

 

Aramis moved down the stairs as swiftly as his friends could manage, keeping an especially close eye on the unusually pale Gascon. They crossed the courtyard, spotting Athos among a small group of other men and horses, along with a cart that seemed laden with supplies. “Athos!” Aramis called as soon the man was in sight.

 

Athos’ head shot up at the cry, a look of relief passing across his face as he saw all three friends coming toward him. He turned his attention back to the man next to him, before separating himself from the others and moving to meet the approaching Musketeers. Aramis reached a hand out to clasp Athos’ before moving out of the man’s way so the elder man could assess the two others. Athos grasped their hands in turn, casting a critical eye over both before addressing Aramis. “How are they?”

 

Porthos snorted and d’Artagnan sputtered in annoyance, “We’re right here you know.” the young man pointed out.

 

Athos pinned him with a neutral gaze as he answered, “And I trust that you will downplay your condition, which is why I’m asking Aramis.”

 

Porthos clapped the young man gently on the back as he led the man a few steps away. “Let him do this. He’s spent two days worrying and he won’t let up until Aramis gives him a full report.”

 

The Gascon nodded ruefully, having forgotten that Athos would indeed have spent their days of separation consumed by worry and likely pushed his horse far harder than he should have to return to the chateau so quickly. When Aramis’ and Athos’ heads lifted, the other two men took it as permission to approach and Porthos wasted no time asking, “So, what’s the plan? Looks like you brought half the garrison back with you,” he motioned to the men who were now unloading supplies.

 

Turning serious, Athos gave a slight nod, “The King was very sympathetic to the Comte’s situation and has sent a physician and two of his helpers along with additional servants to assist the household staff with whatever is needed. I convinced the Captain that no additional Musketeers were required since this isn’t a battle that requires our unique skills. The wagon contains barrels of fresh water along with the physician’s medicines and some other sundry items that were thought could be of use.”

 

As Athos finished his explanation, Pinot arrived and presented himself to the four. “Pinot, this is Athos of the King’s Musketeers,” d’Artagnan introduced. “He’s brought a physician as well as some servants to assist with household duties since many of the Comte’s staff have taken ill.”

 

Pinot offered one of his customary bows, “It is my sincere pleasure to welcome you, Monsieur. I will arrange a room for you. The physician, would it be satisfactory if he used Marceau’s rooms?”

 

“I think that would be a fine idea and there’s enough space in there for his helpers to join him, plus it’s close to the sick rooms where his patients are located,” Aramis agreed.

 

“Pinot, where is Captain Bergerac?” d’Artagnan inquired, realizing that the arrival of so many Musketeers should likely be accompanied by introductions since the man was, technically, in charge of the forces at the chateau.

 

Pinot’s face fell at the question, “Sadly, the Captain has also fallen ill. He has taken to his bed and has remained there since yesterday.”

 

Aramis and d’Artagnan exchanged looks at the news. “Pinot, if you would be so kind to lead the way, I’ll check in on the good Captain to see how he’s faring while the physician gets settled,” Aramis suggested.

 

Pinot nodded agreeably. “Is there anything else you need?”

 

“Yes, the staff will need to be given their duties and we’ll need to get the physician settled in his rooms as quickly as possible so he many begin his work,” Athos declared.

 

Pinot offered another bow, “I will come back and direct the servants to their duties and ensure that the physician is shown to his rooms and then taken to the sick room so he may check on the patients there.”

 

Aramis turned to Athos, “What does the man know of the situation here?”

 

“I’ve shared the information I knew when I left the other day. Is there more news?” Athos asked.

 

“Yeah, we discovered that it’s not the fever. Aramis and d’Artagnan figured it out – there was a dead bird in the well,” Porthos explained.

 

“Then let us share this information with Dupuy,” at the men’s questioning looks, Athos clarified, “the physician.”

 

“Right, you do that while I see to Bergerac,” Aramis suggested. “Shall we meet back in Porthos’ room afterwards?”

 

The men nodded their agreement and Aramis moved off with Pinot to find the Captain’s room while the other three spoke with Dupuy. After introducing the two Musketeers, Athos told the physician, “We have news. My friends found a dead bird tainting the well water. It’s likely that this is what has been making everyone ill.”

 

Dupuy’s brow furrowed in concern, “I thank you for this information. Unfortunately, it only means that this illness is not contagious, but there is still no treatment that I’m aware of.”

 

Athos’ looked at the man sharply, keenly aware now that both of his friends next to him had been infected. “Surely there must be something,” he pressed.

 

The man seemed reluctant to agree but nodded slowly, “Perhaps. I will need to get settled and then examine the patients.”

 

“We have the former physician’s notes as well, if those would be of help,” d’Artagnan offered.

 

“Yes, it would be prudent to review my colleague’s work,” Dupuy agreed.

 

“We’ll have his notebook along with your supplies brought to your room – it used to belong to the physician and has all of his medicines there for your use. Pinot, the head of the Comte’s household, will return shortly to get you and your men settled. Please let him know of anything you need.”

 

Dupuy gave a slight nod of understanding. As the Musketeers turned to leave, he placed a hand on Porthos’ arm. “I’ll come by your rooms also to examine you and your friend,” he said perceptively.

 

Porthos ducked his head in appreciation as the three left. As they crossed the courtyard, Athos’ low voice drifted across to the two men beside him, “How are you both?” Athos kept his eyes forward, but his concern was clear in his tone.

 

“We’re fine, Athos,” d’Artagnan assured.

 

Porthos lips quirked into a small grin as he contradicted their young friend, “The boy’s definition of fine might differ a bit from ours, but we’re definitely feelin’ better than we were.”

 

Athos dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement of the man’s words and they said no more as they entered the chateau and ascended the stairs to Porthos’ room. Passing through the doorway, Porthos’ gaze was drawn to the table where a fourth chair had been added along with a tray of food and several bottles of wine. He grinned to himself as he could imagine that Aramis likely had a part to play in this and was unsurprised when Athos crossed immediately to the table, uncorking one of the bottles and drinking deeply from its contents.

 

His two friends waited patiently for him to sate his thirst and reach for a glass, pouring from the bottle, now ready to drink at a more sedate pace than before. They joined him at the table, both declining his offer of wine, Aramis’ words ringing in d’Artagnan’s ears that he should stick with tea for the time being. “Tell me,” he said, the fear that he held for his friends clear on his face.

 

“There’s two more dead and I think three more new to the sick room. The tea that the physician here was brewin’ seems to help during the early stages, but it can still hit pretty hard,” Porthos glanced meaningfully at their youngest member. “The boy’s spent a fair amount of time in bed and just got up before you arrived.”

 

Athos’ gaze moved to the young man, staring at him to the point that d’Artagnan had to divert his eyes in discomfort. “I see,” he finally said. “You’re feeling better though, Porthos?”

 

“Yeah, didn’t seem to be as bad although it seemed to strike me sooner. I actually feel pretty good today.”

 

Athos nodded and looked at the food laid out before them, “Then I’m guessing that Aramis expects us to eat while we await his return.” He pushed plates toward both his friends and waited until both had begun to eat before turning his attention back to his wine glass.

 

“What about you?” the Gascon pointed out between bites.

 

“I have only begun to drink. If I eat now it will dilute the effects of the wine, defeating my objective in consuming it in the first place,” Athos deadpanned.

 

His comment had the desired effect as the young man grinned and Porthos chuckled. He had missed his brothers’ camaraderie and was content to take some time now, while they had the opportunity, to simply enjoy their company. Aramis was still absent when the men had finished eating so Porthos brewed some tea and then he and Athos bundled d’Artagnan off to bed. When Aramis finally returned, he looked defeated and Athos pulled a chair out for him to sit. Slumping into it gratefully, he looked at his two friends who had been waiting up for him.

 

“Dupuy has read Marceau’s notes and examined those who are ill. He knows of nothing that can cure those afflicted and is intent on simply easing their suffering.” Aramis pulled a hand through his tangled curls, frustration and worry deeply etched on his face. “There must be something,” he declared, dropping his head to rest on his folded arms on the table.

 

“Alright, that’s enough for tonight,” Porthos stated. “You’re gonna eat and then go to bed.”

 

Aramis offered a weak glare, “This is becoming a bad habit on your part, continually bundling me off to bed.”

 

“Yes, it is,” Porthos agreed with a fond look. “But if you don’t have the good sense to know when to rest, then you leave me no choice.”

 

Aramis looked to Athos to seek support from the other man but saw only agreement with Porthos’ words reflected on his friend’s face. “Fine,” he said, snatching the plate that was being offered. “But tomorrow, we’ll figure this out,” he promised.

 

Porthos nodded, “Tomorrow.”

 

Athos took Aramis next door to use d’Artagnan’s room again, while Porthos settled next to the Gascon. Even though there was space enough for everyone to have their own room, the men had grown accustomed to being in each other’s company and now, when things seemed so uncertain, their closeness brought them comfort that couldn’t be gained any other way.

* * *

As Aramis had predicted, both his friends were feeling better the following day as their conditions continued to improve. This should have lightened the men’s spirits but instead they were reminded that with each passing day, they moved nearer to a relapse when the symptoms would reappear and be much increased in their severity. They spent the day uneventfully, Athos taking over duties liaising with the Comte and Aramis splitting his time between his friends and Dupuy, working tirelessly alongside of the physician to help care for the sick and to identify an effective treatment. In the end, it was the Comte who provided the solution they’d been seeking.

 

“You see, it was during my last travels. The sea brings many from other parts and I had a most delightful evening sharing a fine meal and several bottles of wine with a fellow traveller. Now, where was he from again?” The Comte fell silent as he tried to recall the facts of his meeting, while Athos waited patiently, having grown accustomed to the inane ramblings that were often a hallmark of the nobility. “Ah, it’s of no matter. Anyway, he told me a tale of a sickness that struck one of the ships when some of the water barrels were tainted by rats.” The Comte’s face clearly reflected his dislike of the rodents and Athos made a noncommittal humming noise in response.

 

“The men on the ship fell ill, of course, and they feared that all would perish, but one of the men had something that he’d brought from a recent voyage. Now, what was it again that he called it?” The Comte’s brow again furrowed in concentration. “Brazil root!” he cried as he recalled the name. “It was administered to the men who were ill and some of them, quite miraculously, survived.”

 

The Comte now had Athos’ complete attention and he forced himself to remain calm in the face of the potential cure. “Brazil root, you said?”

 

“Yes, but,” the Comte trailed off, his face falling.

 

“But what?” Athos prodded.

 

“Supposedly the effects of the root were nearly as vicious as the illness itself, causing severe vomiting. The man claimed that this was necessary for the body to purge itself of the poisons present in the tainted water and, if strong enough, a man could survive.”

 

“Do you know anything more about this Brazil root?” Athos pressed.

 

“No, I’m sorry, that’s everything I can remember.”

 

“Let’s pray it is enough,” Athos gave a short nod of thanks before turning on his heel to go in search of either Aramis or Dupuy. It turned out that the two men were together in Dupuy’s rooms so he was able to share his information with both men at once.

 

When he’d finished relating what he’d learned, Aramis tugged thoughtfully at his beard, “Brazil root, I’m not certain if I’ve ever heard of it before.” He looked at Dupuy who was deep in thought as well.

 

They stayed silent for several moments before Dupuy sprang into action, seizing a book from one of the tables and flipping the pages until he found the one he wanted. “There,” he stabbed a finger at the page he’d found. “Ipecacuanha – also goes by the name Brazil root and known to induce severe vomiting.”

 

Aramis’ eyes lit up, daring to hope that his friends would be cured. “Do you have any?”

 

Dupuy shook his head despondently. “It’s not local and I’ve only heard of it from others travelling abroad. It’s possible that there are some who will have it from their own travels, but I don’t honestly know where we can find some.”

 

It was a cruel twist of fate that a solution was found only to discover that it was beyond their reach. Athos was not so easily deterred, however. “We’ll travel to Le Havre. It’s our best chance of finding what we need.”

 

Aramis looked at his friend’s determined face as he spoke, “That’s a four-day ride.” He didn’t say any more as they both knew that in a week’s time their friends were likely to be in the throes of the illness once again.

 

"You have a better solution?” Athos said resolutely. Aramis didn’t, of course, and he and Dupuy stayed silent. “I’ll set out in the morning and trade horses where I can. How much of this Brazil root will I need to bring back?”

 

Dupuy shrugged, uncertain. Pointing to the book he said, “I’ll see what I can find and have an answer for you before you depart.”

 

Athos nodded, preparing to leave and Aramis followed him into the hallway. “Athos, are you certain of this?”

 

“Aramis, if you have another way then I’ll gladly hear it. What I won’t do is sit idly by as our friends weaken and watch them die.”

 

Aramis knew that the trip had to be made and, although he was torn, he nodded in acceptance, “Then I’ll be going with you.” Athos looked like he might protest, but Aramis stilled him with a hand. “This is not up for discussion. The road to Le Havre is a dangerous one and you will be distracted by worry for Porthos and d’Artagnan. If you’re going then you’ll permit me to go with you.”

 

“Aramis,” Athos placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder, fear clear in his eyes, “what if they fall ill before we return. Who will care for them?”

 

“Don’t you think I’ve thought of that already?” Aramis asked in anguish. “But you cannot ask me to let you travel alone. It’s far too dangerous and our friends’ wellbeing relies on you being able to make the trip safely and return. At least they won’t be alone here and, while it’s not ideal, they can be cared for by Dupuy and his men.” Athos nodded and Aramis offered a weak smile, grateful that his friend was allowing his participation. “Let’s go inform our friends of our plans.”

 

Athos grimaced at the thought, “They won’t be happy, will they?”

 

His comment received a short bark of laughter, “Now that’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dupuy wet the cloth that hung over the edge of the bowl of water next to Porthos’ bed and mopped the man’s face gently. “You must be strong Monsieur Porthos. That young man will not survive it if you give up now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has continued to read and comment. A bit more angst for our boys in this one...

The Musketeers rose with the sun the following morning, eager to get on the road to Le Havre and intent on not wasting a minute of daylight. The journey was a four-day trek; Athos was determined to make it in three.

 

As predicted, neither of their friends was happy with the planned trip to Le Havre, d’Artagnan even going so far as suggesting that they all ride there together, but Porthos’ quiet strength calmed the boy’s hotheadedness and he eventually relented. Aramis had returned later that night to speak at length with Dupuy, securing a promise that when his friends fell ill again that the man would personally oversee their care and that they would not be moved into the sick room with the others.

 

In the early morning light, Aramis conversed with Dupuy about the required supply of Brazil root they would need to obtain, while Athos drafted a letter for Treville to update him on their situation and arranging with the Comte to have a rider leave immediately for Paris. d’Artagnan fidgeted nervously, alternatively pacing and chewing at his nails at the thought of once again being separated. Porthos shared his feelings but he stood quietly, offering the occasional touch or understanding look to help settle the young man.

 

With the conversations finished, Athos gripped the reigns of his horse and mounted, looking to Aramis to do the same. Porthos caught him in a brief hug, knowing how difficult it was for the healer of their group to leave when it was pretty much guaranteed that his friends would be severely ill by the time he returned. “Keep Athos out of trouble,” the larger man joked softly in his friend’s ear, “and be safe. Remember, your lives are just as important as ours.” Aramis nodded and the two pulled apart.

 

Porthos moved to clasp Athos’ hand in farewell while Aramis embraced d’Artagnan. “Don’t worry,” the young man assured, “I’ll take care of Porthos while you’re away.”

 

Aramis shook his head in amused annoyance and pulled back to lock gazes with the Gascon, “Make sure you take care of yourself as well.” The young man grinned and dipped his head in embarrassment before agreeing with his friend’s request.

 

They parted and Aramis mounted his horse as Athos reminded them, “We should return in seven or eight days, and if Treville locates any of the root in Paris, he’ll send someone with it. Take good care of yourselves.”

 

The two turned their horses toward the gates and exited without looking back, both knowing that d’Artagnan and Porthos would be watching until they rode out of sight. The two friends stood in silence for several minutes, the Comte and Dupuy long departed, and Porthos clapped d’Artagnan on the back, pulling him back toward the chateau. “Come on then, if Aramis is right about what we have to look forward to, we’ll need to keep up our strength. First breakfast and then maybe we’ll go for a bit of a walk to enjoy the sunshine.”

 

d’Artagnan knew the man was trying to break him out of his maudlin mood and was grateful, so he nodded agreeably and followed the other man back inside. The next four days passed in relative peace, the two Musketeers enjoying each other’s companionship. They lent their strength to some of the tasks that needed to be done at the chateau and spent time outside, either walking through the grounds or taking short rides in the surrounding countryside, and sparring in the courtyard with some of Bergerac’s men.

 

The days were almost idyllic if not for the pall hanging over them as each day they waited to feel sick again. The first signs appeared on the evening of their fifth day, shortly after d’Artagnan brought some bread and stew to their room for dinner. Porthos was already seated, holding his head in his hands as he leaned on the table. The Gascon slid the tray down in front of his friend to be rewarded with a quiet groan. Picking up on his friend’s demeanor, the young man moved the tray aside, placing it onto a dresser on the other side of the room before kneeling down in front of Porthos and placing a hand on one thigh.

 

“Porthos,” he asked softly, “has it begun?”

 

The larger man lifted his head out of his hands and d’Artagnan got his first look at his friend’s sweat-covered face and pallid skin. Nodding to himself, the Gascon stood and crossed over to the bed, pulling back the blankets and arranging the pillows before returning to grip Porthos’ arm and pull him gently to his feet, helping the man shuffle miserably across the room. Turning his friend to sit on the bed, d’Artagnan slipped the doublet and shirt from his shoulders, then slipped his boots off, before encouraging him to stand once more in order to remove his breeches. From what they’d seen, this sickness was cruel and the young man wanted to do everything in his power to make Porthos as comfortable as possible, which meant not leaving him in constricting clothing that would likely soon be soaked through with sweat. Easing his friend back onto the bed, d’Artagnan gently lowered Porthos’ torso to the mattress before lifting his legs up and covering the man to his neck, seeing the chills already begin to rack his large frame.

 

Taking a cup from the table, the Gascon began to steep some tea and brought a chair to sit next to the bed to tend his sick friend. His gaze lingered momentarily on the food he’d brought, realizing that his appetite had fled. Allowing a huff of disgust to escape his lips, he collected his bowl of stew and sat down to eat while he waited for the tea to be ready, forcing himself to eat as he recalled Aramis’ earlier words. “ _Strong men can survive this treatment so you must do everything you can to build up your stamina in the days before you feel ill._ ”

 

When he’d finished, he brought the cup of tea to Porthos’ lips, encouraging him to drink even though he was clearly uninterested. After managing half the cup, d’Artagnan permitted his friend to rest, lowering his head back onto the pillow and watching as his eyes slipped shut. Fetching the chamber pot, a bowl of fresh water and several clean cloths, the young man settled down again next to his friend’s side, wetting a cloth and then placing it on Porthos’ brow. He knew that there was little that could be done until Athos and Aramis returned and he resigned himself to care for his friend until the other two returned.

* * *

The two friends spent an interminable night, with Porthos intermittently shivering then sweating with fever, and d’Artagnan wishing for some way to ease his friend’s suffering. When the stomach upset began near dawn, the Gascon nearly cried in despair. Once it began, Porthos was completely unable to lay flat, curling into a ball to ease the agony in his traitorous stomach, and d’Artagnan could do little but keep up a stream of murmured platitudes, wiping his friend’s face and neck and plying him with tea on the few occasions his friend was lucid enough to swallow. The severe stomach cramps were soon followed by his bowels releasing in a noxious, watery state, which d’Artagnan was horrified to find, was accompanied by blood. Rather than leaving his friend’s side for too long, the Gascon disposed of the soiled chamber pot outside their door and retrieved clean ones from the rooms that he and the other Musketeers had been given, reasoning that no one had need of them now.

 

When day finally broke, both men were exhausted and d’Artagnan was relieved when a knock on the door was followed by Dupuy’s cautious entrance. The physician’s face was a mix of sympathy and concern for the two men, knowing that while one was sick, the other would not rest and likely follow shortly. “Monsiuer d’Artagnan, how do you fare today?” he asked even as he moved across the room to examine Porthos.

 

d’Artagnan dragged a hand across his face and through his hair, not sure of how to respond given the sight and smell that had greeted Dupuy. “It started last night.”

 

“Mmm,” Dupuy leaned forward and placed a hand on Porthos’ brow.

 

“It was just the fever at first and then the stomach pains began. Then…” the Gascon trailed off, motioning to the chamber pot and the physician nodded in understanding.

 

“Has he consumed anything?”

 

The young man shook his head despondently, “I’ve managed to pour a bit of tea down his throat, but he seems unaware of anything around him and I didn’t want him to choke.”

 

Pulling the blanket higher up on his patient’s shoulders, Dupuy stood and cast an appraising eye over the young Gascon. “And, you? Have you eaten? Slept?”

 

The Gascon managed a brief smile at the man’s genuine concern over their welfare and shrugged. “I’ve been a little busy taking care of Porthos.”

 

“Then you will take the time now to care for your own needs,” the physician stated.

 

“No,” d’Artagnan countered, “I can’t leave him alone in this state. I promised I would take care of him.”

 

“Mmm,” Dupuy hummed with a knowing gleam in his eye, “I made a similar promise to Monsieur Aramis that I would take care of you…both of you. Now, you will take four hours to eat something and then get some rest. I will stay with your friend while you’re gone.” The Gascon drew breath to protest and the physician continued, “You cannot take care of your friend if you drive yourself to exhaustion.”

 

Again, the young man was struck by the sincerity in the physician’s eyes and nodded reluctantly. “I’ll go get something from the kitchen and be right back.”

 

“No,” Dupuy chided, “You’ll go to your room next door to eat and then you’ll take advantage of the clean sheets and soft pillows in that massive bed so you can rest properly. Napping in a chair at your friend’s bedside is not enough.”

 

Sensing that this was a battle he would not win, d’Artagnan offered a small nod and left.

 

Dupuy wet the cloth that hung over the edge of the bowl of water next to Porthos’ bed and mopped the man’s face gently. “You must be strong Monsieur Porthos. That young man will not survive it if you give up now.”

* * *

Three days it had taken them to reach Le Havre. Aramis was still astonished when they’d managed to reduce their travel time by an entire day, but he should have known by now that when Athos was determined, he was a force to be reckoned with. Upon their arrival, they rested only long enough to find lodgings, not so much concerned for themselves but for their horses who needed food and water to be ready for the ride back. Having secured rooms and stabling for the horses, they moved down to the waterfront as evening approached and made inquiries at the various ships that dotted the harbour front. When the darkness of night had fallen and the two men found themselves still empty-handed, they moved to the taverns that lined the harbour.

 

At their third stop, Aramis finally managed to persuade Athos to find a table so they could at least eat something and wash away some of the dust from the road with a bottle of wine. They sat at their table in silence, listening to the conversations around them and Aramis could see the tenseness in his friend’s stiff posture and clenched jaw that spoke of the depth of the fear he held for their two brothers. When the food arrived at their table, Athos reached for the bottle of wine but Aramis was quicker. Pushing a bowl of stew to Athos instead, Aramis uncorked the bottle with his teeth and slowly poured two glasses of wine. Athos glared at his friend for a moment before huffing and giving in to Aramis’ mothering.

 

As Athos took his first bite of stew, Aramis quirked his lips in a small grin and placed the filled wine glass in front of his friend. “The wine will taste all the sweeter once you’ve something in your stomach.”

 

“I don’t find that’s usually a problem for me,” Athos replied flatly.

 

Aramis began eating his own stew, ripping off a piece of bread and dipping it into the thick juices. “And people think you have no sense of humour, Athos. Clearly they don’t know you as well as I do,” he teased.

 

Washing down the last of their meal with the wine, Aramis leaned back in his chair, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “So, what now? Shall I take this side of the room while you take the other?” It was as good a plan as any and the men stood and moved away from the table, Athos taking the last of the wine with him in his newly refilled glass. He wove his way through the room full of bodies and tables, moving slowly as he paused to listen briefly at each table for indications that the men seated there had recently returned from the part of the world where the Brazil root grew.

 

Glancing around he caught Aramis’ wave from the other side of the room so he crossed over to stand at his friend’s side. “Athos, I’d like to introduce you to Monsieur Devereaux, most recently of the ship La Coste. I believe he has a story that may interest us.”

 

Athos looked inquiringly at his friend and, trusting the man’s judgement, pulled a chair out from the table and addressed Devereaux. “Monsieur, you have a story you wish to relate?”

 

Devereaux was a scrawny man and he licked his lips in nervous anticipation, crossing his arms across his chest as he leaned back in his chair, trying to put on an air of confidence that he clearly did not possess. “He said you’d buy my meal?” the man lifted his chin to indicate Aramis.

 

Athos looked at Aramis who inclined his head in agreement. “Very well,” Athos drawled. “Aramis, why don’t you see to this man’s supper while he begins his tale.” Athos leaned back as well, mimicking the man’s posture and took a slow sip of his wine as he pinned the man with a hard stare.

 

Few men could stand up to Athos’ steely gaze and Devereaux was soon busy explaining how another shipmate, recently arrived in Le Havre, had shared a story of an incredible root that cured men of their illnesses. Leaving the man with his food and a half-bottle of wine, the two Musketeers left with a name and directions to a rundown boarding house. Aramis protested the late hour suggesting they wait until morning, but Athos could not be dissuaded and they soon found themselves in a winding alleyway, looking for the house where the man rented a room.

 

Locating the address they sought, Aramis stared at the shabby door in front of them with distaste. Athos watched him, commenting, “Does it offend your sensibilities to be entering a house that is this badly in disorder?”

 

Aramis threw him a disgusted look and placed his gloved hand on the doorknob, turning it and pushing, the door barely able to move on its rusted hinges. Another glance at Athos’ impassive face had Aramis applying his shoulder to the door, cringing at what might be rubbing off onto his doublet. His efforts were rewarded as the door finally opened enough to allow the two men entrance into a small and equally drab sitting area, and a set of stairs that likely led to the occupants’ rooms. Aramis gave an “after you” gesture with one hand, allowing Athos to lead the way upstairs. Unfortunately, Devereaux had not known which room belonged to his friend, Gaspar, so they resigned themselves to opening each door in turn in order to locate the man.

 

As luck would have it, the first two doors they tried opened on empty rooms, and both men hoped the man they sought did not belong in one of those. Their third try revealed and couple who, once made aware of the two men’s identify, helpfully identified Gaspar’s room as the one at the end of the hallway. Aramis thanked the couple, tipping his hat, and receiving a lascivious grin from the exceedingly frumpy housewife who sat next to her husband in the bed. Athos was already striding purposefully toward Gaspar’s room as Aramis closed the door behind him, hurrying to catch up to his friend.

 

Athos wasted no time in applying a heavy fist to the door, rattling it in its frame, before swinging it open and entering. “Monsieur Gaspar?” Athos questioned of the man who sat at a small table with a bottle of brandy at his side.

 

The man was no doubt startled by the Musketeer’s entrance and it took him a moment to respond. “Yeah, who’re you?” he asked suspiciously, eyeing a pistol that lay on top of the bed.

 

“Athos and Aramis of the King’s Musketeers,” Athos introduced them. “Forgive our intrusion but we come seeking some of the powerful root that you spoke of to Monsieur Devereaux.”

 

Gaspar stared between the two men as he licked his lips, considering how to respond and how he might turn the situation to his advantage, “You say Devereaux told you about this?” Aramis nodded. “He’s a drunk, ya know, not a man to be trusted.”

 

“Are you suggesting that your friend misled us?” Athos glared darkly.

 

Seeing the look on the Musketeer’s face was enough to convince the man to change his story and he stammered, “No, I just needed to make sure, you know?” Gaspar lowered his voice as he shared conspiratorially, “There’s lots of folks around who can’t be trusted.”

 

Aramis stepped in before Athos could, knowing the older man was likely struggling not to roll his eyes, “Of course. And now that you know you can trust us, let’s hear about this magical root.”

 

Gaspar nodded, seemingly to collect his thoughts as his gaze dropped meaningfully to the purse tied at Aramis’ waist. Aramis followed his gaze and said, exasperated, “We’re willing to pay, based on the quality of your information.”

 

“It was from our last trip, you see. Some of the men got sick somethin’ awful. We had them all below decks cause the stench from their bowels was too much for the others to stand.”

 

Aramis held up a hand, “That’s enough of that type of detail, thank you. What of the root?”  


“Oh, one of the merchants had traded for a pretty big supply of the stuff. Wasn’t something he’d run across before and thought it would fetch him a pretty penny in Paris.”

 

“And where might we find this merchant,” Athos prompted.

 

“On his way to Paris, I’d imagine. He secured a horse as soon as we’d docked and went on his way.” At his words, Athos took a menacing step forward and Gaspar recoiled in fear.

 

“You mean he’s left Le Havre already?” Gaspar nodded meekly. “When? When did you dock?”

 

“A week ago,” the man answered, scratching his head. “Guess he’d be in Paris already, wouldn’t he.”

 

Athos breathed deeply, turning away from the man in an effort to maintain his temper. Aramis placed a calming hand on his friend’s arm and looked sharply at Gaspar. “Did he take all of the root with him?”

 

“No, I’d helped him out some and he gave me some as a thank you.” The man made to stand but waited until he received a tilt of Aramis’ head, allowing the motion. He walked to a battered chest at the foot of the bed and Athos positioned himself so he could see what was inside, placing a hand on his pistol in warning. Gaspar saw the motion and raised his hands momentarily to placate the man before lifting the lid and pulling out a small canvas bag. “This is it. I wasn’t really sure what to do with it so I just threw it in here.”

 

Aramis allowed a sigh of relief to escape as he dragged a hand down his face. Smiling broadly, he stepped forward to clap the man on the back, taking the canvas bag out of his hands. “You have saved us a long ride to Paris,” he said, and then added under his breath, “and possibly something of far greater value.”

 

Tucking the canvas bag into his doublet, Aramis motioned to Athos, “Pay the man, Athos. It turns out that his information was useful after all.”

 

Athos sent a scowl in his friend’s direction but dipped his hand into his purse regardless, pulling out a number of coins which he threw on the man’s bed. Tipping his hat to the man, Aramis followed Athos out and back onto the street. Standing outside the door, Athos caught Aramis’ eye, “Is it enough?”

 

Aramis felt the bulge of the bag beneath his doublet and nodded. Athos clasped a hand to his friend’s shoulder, sharing his relief and the two made their way back to their lodgings, hoping to get a few hours’ sleep before dawn found them on the road back to Chartres and their ailing brothers.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once more he attempted to brace himself with the bed and a deep fire exploded with him, turning his vision momentarily white and then black. With the darkness a last cry was driven from his lungs as he toppled sideways out of the chair and landed heavily on his side, striking his head soundly on the bedframe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm overwhelmed by the wonderful comments folks have shared and appreciate your continued reading of this story. I hope everyone enjoys this next chapter.

Moments after d’Artagnan had finally left the room to find food and rest, Porthos opened his eyes, staring blearily at the physician next to him. Dupuy knew he should be surprised when two hazy brown eyes met his, but the strength of these men’s devotion for one another knew no bounds.

 

“’e gone?” Pothos asked and Dupuy nodded. “Good,” he said, blinking slowly, his eyes remaining closed for several seconds. “Too stubborn for ‘is own good. It’s good you kicked him out of ‘ere.” Porthos closed his eyes again as his face screwed up in a grimace of pain, his arms tightening around his painful midsection.

 

Dupuy mopped his patient’s brow as he spoke, “I’d ask how you’re feeling but I believe I already know the answer.” A grunt was his only reply. “You must try to drink something; you’ve lost too much fluid already.”

 

Porthos forced his eyes open, his gaze almost pleading in despair at the thought of having to add something to his already miserable stomach. Dupuy’s gaze softened, “I know you feel terrible, but I promise that you’ll only feel worse if you refuse.” Porthos gave a curt nod, allowing the physician to lift his head slightly and assist him in drinking some of the cooled tea from earlier.

 

When he’d finished, Porthos dropped his head back onto the pillow in exhaustion, the pain and discomfort of the previous night having prevented him from any quality sleep and leaving him heavily fatigued as evening faded into day. “Thanks,” he breathed out.

 

Dupuy smiled in reply. “Your friends should be back in a few days,” he offered, trying to distract the man from thoughts of his distress.

 

Keeping his eyes closed, Porthos chanced a larger breath as he asked, “How many is it? Today?”

 

Understanding the large man’s meaning, Dupuy answered, “This is the sixth day since your friends left. Your Monsieur Athos suggested they might return as early as the seventh but I think the eighth or most probably the ninth are more accurate estimates.”

 

Porthos’ lips quirked in a small grin, “You don’t know Athos.” He panted several times against the pain before continuing, “When ‘e puts his mind to somethin’ there’s much that can stop him.”

 

Dupuy couldn’t help but smile at the man’s faith and was simply glad for his current state of awareness. “Then I look forward to being proven wrong.”

 

Porthos offered another slight grin, his face relaxing as his stomach pains momentarily eased. “If you can, you should try to get some rest before things turn worse again,” Dupuy counselled. His patient offered no response but Dupuy could see the man’s face grow lax as his breathing evened out in sleep. Taking advantage of what he knew would be merely a short reprieve, the physician prepared another cup of tea and settled down to watch over his patient.

* * *

d’Artagnan was surprised at how hungry he was given his lack of sleep and worry for his friend, but he’d taken Dupuy’s words to heart and made a good meal. When he’d finished, he rolled into the welcoming bed, scarcely remembering to remove his boots first. He revelled in the feel of the cool, crisp sheets next to his skin and the incredibly soft pillow that cushioned his head. Dupuy was right – this was a far better alternative to sleeping in a chair or on the floor in Porthos’ room, although he still felt unease at having left the men alone. For a moment, the Gascon considered getting up and disobeying the physician’s order to sleep in his own room, but by the time the thought had formed, his limbs had already turned limp, beckoning his mind to follow. With a last thought about Porthos’ condition next door, the young man fell into a deep sleep.

 

When he awoke, he found himself tangled in the damp bedding, feeling too warm and chilled at the same time and realizing that he’d sweated heavily at some point during his sleep. Forcing heavy limbs to move with some semblance of coordination, d’Artagnan untangled himself and threw the once welcoming blankets aside. Sitting up, he could see by the light coming through the window that many hours had passed and felt a spike of anxiety that he’d slept later than what had been agreed upon. Turning to place his feet on the floor, the Gascon pulled at the sticky shirt that seemed to cling to every inch of him, finally deciding that he’d change it before returning to check on Porthos.

 

Standing was an unwelcome motion, causing a moment of light-headedness that had d’Artagnan groping blindly for the wall. When it had passed, he moved gingerly toward his saddlebags, removing his last clean shirt. He considered taking the time to wash first, but his need to be back at Porthos’ side was too great and he simply pulled it on against his rapidly drying body. The cool touch of linen chilled him momentarily before the fabric warmed from the flush of his skin, and he tucked the shirt into his breeches before sliding his boots on. Taking a last look around, he gathered his weapons belt to him – just in case – and departed for Porthos’ room next door.

 

He knocked out of politeness so that Dupuy had some warning of his entrance, but entered immediately without waiting for the physician’s approval to enter. A quick nod of greeting went to the physician as the Gascon’s eyes darted around the room to get a sense of the past few hours. He noted the absence of another chamber pot and the bowl of water Dupuy was using to keep Porthos comfortable. On the table he saw a fresh cup of tea and worried straightaway that the physician had been unable to get his friend to drink.

 

Dupuy caught the concerned look and gave a shake of his head, softly whispering, “He’s managed two cups already; I just like having the next one ready for when he awakens.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded, throwing the man a grateful smile. Dupuy stood from his spot at the bed and met the Gascon at the table, motioning for them both to sit. “He’s doing well.” At the young man’s look of disbelief, Dupuy rolled his eyes, clarifying, “For a man who’s suffering with this illness, he’s doing relatively well. He managed to get some proper sleep before his bowels awoke him again and he’s had his wits about him each time he’s woken. He’s still very sick, but doing as well as can be expected.”

 

The Gascon threw an anxious look toward Porthos, asking, “Will he be strong enough for the cure?”

 

Sensing the young man’s need for comfort, Dupuy chose not to answer the question directly. “Your friend is exceptionally strong, both in body and in mind. I cannot fathom a challenge that he would not be able to overcome.”

 

d’Artagnan ducked his head at the accuracy of the man’s words. Placing a hand on the Gascon’s chin to lift his head, Dupuy asked, “How are you feeling?”

 

“I’m fine,” the young man answered automatically.

 

Dupuy chose to stay silent in his disagreement of the young man’s assessment, having already noted the sheen of sweat on the boy’s brow and the twin patches of red on his cheeks. Instead, he motioned to the food that had been placed on the table, “Then it is time for you to each lunch. This is far more than I can hope to eat and I hate eating by myself. You will do me the pleasure of your company as we dine and then I will leave you for a few hours to check on my other patients, yes?”

 

Knowing that the man’s invitation was not to be denied, d’Artagnan agreed, “Yes.”

 

“Good,” the physician clapped his hands and prepared plates for both of them. Pushing one toward d’Artagnan he began to talk idly about some of his more entertaining patients, aiming to distract the young man as he ate. When the boy’s plate was empty, Dupuy brewed him a fresh cup of tea before finally taking his leave. As he closed the door behind him, the physician reflected again on the stubbornness of these men, fully anticipating that by tonight there would be two patients in this room requiring his care.

* * *

Both men were weary from hours in the saddle, too many of which were spent conjuring thoughts of their sick brothers and the state in which they might be found upon their return to the chateau. The trip to Le Havre had taken three days and Athos was resolute that their return trip would be just as swift, pushing their horses to remain in motion from dawn till dusk, slowing from a canter or stopping altogether only when the beasts were near collapse.

 

The tiresome journey showed on the faces of both men as well who, while accustomed to spending a fair amount of time in the saddle, were pushing their own limits with the pace that Athos had set. Muscles were sore and cramping, their clothes and bodies covered with dust from the road, and yet they still pushed doggedly forward. Aramis should have realized that their few hours of poor sleep would catch up to them and so they did, in grand fashion, reminding him again of how fickle fate could be to the Musketeers.

 

It happened as they were crossing an innocuous looking meadow, having just nudged the horses back into an easy trot over the clear field ahead of them. Athos’ horse stumbled on an unseen rut in the ground and before the man could even cry out in surprise, the horse had fallen and rolled, catching Athos underneath its large body as it finished its rotation on the ground before regaining its feet.

 

“Athos,” Aramis cried, spurring his horse to close the distance between the two men. Although Aramis ached to check on his friend, he knew the first priority was to catch Athos’ horse, lest in run off, leaving the two men to share one steed. He expertly snagged the reigns of the other horse, pulling them both to a stop and sliding out of the saddle to run back and drop to his knees next to Athos. In the time that it had taken Aramis to catch Athos’ horse, the older Musketeer had regained his senses, cautiously testing his body to see what damage he’d suffered.

 

When Aramis hit his knees next to him, Athos lifted his head and assured his concerned friend, “I’m alright. It’s just bruises, I think.”

 

Aramis let his head drop in relief before recapturing his friend’s gaze. “Are you certain?”

 

Athos nodded. “The ground was soft and my legs were just pressed into the ground from the horse’s weight.”

 

Already reaching to confirm Athos’ statement, Aramis asked, “You won’t mind if I check.” Palpating first one leg then the other, Aramis confirmed that no bones had been broken, although the man would likely be sore and covered in bruises if the hitches in his breathing while Aramis examined him were any indication. Rising, Aramis wiped the dust from his breeches, then extended a hand to his friend, pulling him first to a sitting position and then to his feet. Aramis noted the grimace on his friend’s face as Athos’ legs adjusted to holding his own weight, but he nodded moments later to say he was fine.

 

With his first step, Athos stumbled and would have fallen had it not been for Aramis’ quick grab. Giving him a stern look, Aramis ordered, “Stay here, I’ll bring the horses to you.” Taking a step away, he waited to ensure Athos was steady before moving to collect the horses. Guiding the two mounts back, he laid the reins of Athos’ horse onto its neck, before assisting the Musketeer back into the saddle. Athos grimaced as he shifted his feet into the stirrups and Aramis could already see that they’d need to slow their pace considerably if the older man wanted to maintain his seat.

 

Mounting as well, Aramis turned to his friend, “We’ll keep the horses at a walk for now.” Despite the look of protest on Athos’ face, Aramis continued, “You cannot possibly convince me that your legs are strong enough right now to stay seated at a faster pace.”

 

Athos adjusted his legs, again testing their strength and was chagrined to find Aramis’ statement correct. He offered his friend a curt nod as he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and nudged it into motion. Athos chafed at the slower pace, knowing that they could have made it to the chateau by nightfall, but instead would have to find somewhere to spend the night and finish their journey the following day. Rationally, he knew that the likelihood of his friends’ passing before they arrived was low, but the lack of knowledge they currently possessed about the two men’s condition kept his emotions raw with worry and prevented him from being able to manage more than the barest amount of sleep when he was too exhausted to stay awake anymore.

 

Glancing at Aramis, he could see the same fatigue settled in the man’s shoulders, smudges present under both eyes, marring the normally handsome features and aging the man beyond his years. He knew that neither one of them could imagine a world without their two brothers and that if they arrived too late, neither of them would recover from the guilt they would bear.

 

As evening neared, Aramis led them off the main road, explaining that he knew of an inn that was located another half-hour’s ride away. Athos chafed at the idea of wasting the time simply to provide them with the comfort of a proper bed, but Aramis had again anticipated his reaction and promptly reminded him, “If you spend the night outside on the hard ground, you’ll barely be able to move tomorrow, let alone ride. Our best strategy is to get you into a hot bath tonight so your muscles don’t seize on you, get a good night’s sleep and be back on the road at first light.”

 

Athos could see the sincerity in the other man’s eyes and he grudgingly agreed, turning his horse to follow. As Aramis had stated, their arrival at the inn began with the promised soak in a tub filled with almost overly hot water, which Aramis declared was necessary to loosen the sore muscles. While Athos sat in the tub watching his skin prune, Aramis secured dinner. When he brought the food up to their room, Athos was allowed to get out and dry off, but only dress in his smalls. He was then directed to sit on the bed, legs outstretched in front of him and was presented with a bowl of stew and bread. As he ate, Aramis pulled a jar of thick ointment from his saddlebag, rubbing a dollop between the palms of his hands until the room smelled heavily of eucalyptus. Athos’s legs were then massaged thoroughly to the point that the pain from the initial contact morphed into a welcome touch, turning his limbs to jelly and relaxing him until his eyelids drooped.

 

Seeing the effect on his friend, Aramis smiled and wiped his hands on a cloth, before nudging Athos to scoot lower on the bed and lay his head down. Within moments the older man was asleep and Aramis looked at him fondly as he helped himself to a glass of wine. The past week had been a difficult one for both of them but, as always, the older man had carried all of the responsibility for their friends’ fate on his shoulders. If anything happened to their brothers, Aramis knew that it would devastate both of them, but he worried even more for Athos’ state of mind should the unthinkable occur. Realizing the lateness of the hour and his own fatigue, Aramis emptied his glass of the remaining wine before pulling off his own boots, breeches and shirt to lay down next to his friend, slipping immediately into a dreamless, exhausted sleep.

* * *

The afternoon passed slowly for d’Artagnan, having turned into an endless cycle of helping Porthos with the chamber pot, wiping his face and neck from the sticky sweat that seemed to continuously cover him, forcing tea on the man, even when he was nearly insensible and swallowing became another challenge to overcome, and brewing more tea for the next opportunity to pour it down his friend’s throat. In the periods in between, when Porthos actually slept or was simply too miserable to do anything other than lay limply, d’Artagnan forced himself to sip his own tea while he sat shivering in a blanket next to the bed. As evening arrived, a tray was delivered and d’Artagnan lifted a crust of bread from it, sending the rest away. His stomach had now returned to its previously fragile state and the bread was all he would be able to force down.

 

Hours later, uncertain of exactly how much time had passed, d’Artagnan lifted his head from his chest, realizing that he’d fallen asleep. He threw the blanket off, now feeling overheated, and noticed that Porthos’ eyes were partially open and the man was groaning softly. Leaning forward, he placed a comforting hand on this friend’s shoulder. “Porthos, can you hear me?”

 

The larger man’s eyes fluttered weakly and then managed to focus on his, drawing a smile from the young Gascon. “What do you need, Porthos?” The Musketeer’s eyes slipped closed again, accompanied by another groan as he tried to curl himself into an even tighter ball than before. The young man had agonized over the fact that he’d been unable to ease his friend’s suffering and racked his foggy brain for some way to provide even an ounce of relief. Then it struck him, as a long-forgotten memory was recalled. Moving swiftly from his chair, he called for a servant, knowing that he lacked the strength to make his way down the stairs and outside. When his call was answered, he sent the man for several large stones that could be heated in the fire and placed against Porthos’ belly to provide some reprieve.

 

When the first stone was hot, d’Artagnan wrapped it in a blanket and forced Porthos to uncurl enough to place the bundle against his torso. The effect was nearly immediate as Porthos’ face slackened and the tension in his muscles lessened, the warmth from the stone alleviating some of the pain of the cramping that he’d been experiencing. “Thank God,” d’Artagnan muttered, dropping his head wearily. He dragged himself back to the fireplace and fished out a second stone, wrapping it as he had the first, and brought it back for himself. The heat was a welcome respite from the chills that had again settled over him and worked to assuage the mild cramping he was beginning to experience.

 

As he revelled in the warmth of the stone he clutched against his middle, Dupuy arrived to check on them both. His sharp eyes noted the Gascon’s pallor and slightly hunched position, confirming his fears from earlier that the young man would not be far behind his friend in exhibiting symptoms. He crossed the room swiftly, squeezing d’Artagnan’s shoulder before bending to check on Porthos.

 

“How has he been?” Dupuy asked, checking the man’s temperature.

 

“Poorly,” d’Artagnan breathed out. “He’s barely managed to rest and hasn’t been able to drink much, although his need for the chamber pot hasn’t diminished. I heated a stone for him and placed it against his stomach, which seems to be helping a bit.”

 

Dupuy raised an eyebrow at the young man’s last statement, pulling the blanket back to reveal the wrapped stone. “Hmm, an ingenious idea. How did you think of it?” he asked, re-covering the sleeping man.

 

“My mother, she did the same when I suffered stomach upset as a child. It helped,” d’Artagnan muttered.

 

The physician straightened and observed his second patient. “And how are you feeling?” he questioned kindly.

 

The young man offered a half-shrug, tightening the blanket around himself as a shiver crawled up his spine. “’m fine.”

 

“Are you always this understated when it comes to your health?” Dupuy asked.

 

The Gascon seemed to consider the question before nodding. This drew a snort from the physician who hadn’t expected the man to answer and certainly not to answer honestly. It was likely a reflection of exactly how poorly the boy was now feeling.

 

“Why don’t you lay down for a bit? It might be more comfortable for you than sitting perched on that chair,” Dupuy suggested, already reaching for the young man’s arm to help him stand up.

 

d’Artagnan pulled his arm away from the other man and pinned him with a scowl. “I don’t need to lay down.”

 

“Monsieur d’Artagnan, as your physician I must insist,” Dupuy began before he was interrupted.

 

“No,” the Gascon countered. “You’ve been up since early this morning and you’ll likely be awake a good part of the night. I’m still alright for now, but once I’m not, we’ll both need your help.” He motioned with his head to one corner of the room that now contained a small cot. “I asked for that to be brought this afternoon. Get some sleep and I’ll wake you when I need you. For now, take advantage of the fact that I can still function.” Dupuy looked like he might argue until the young man added a soft, “Please.”

 

Nodding, the physician agreed and sat on the edge of the cot to remove his doublet and boots. “You promise you’ll wake me?” he confirmed.

 

“Promise,” d’Artagnan agreed.

 

It was a testament to the man’s exhaustion that he felt asleep within minutes of laying down, and d’Artagnan felt comforted that he’d made the right decision in forcing the physician to sleep. He was not trying to be stoic but knew that Dupuy would do everything in his power to care for both of them once they were unable to, and d’Artagnan resolved to do everything he could to delay the inevitable for as long as possible. As his stomach clenched with another painful cramp, the Gascon realized that his heated stone had cooled, so he shuffled back to the fireplace to switch it for a warm one. He used it to replace the cooled stone that Porthos had wrapped himself around and then repeated the process for himself. By the time that he’d finished and was again sitting down, a fresh sheen of sweat covered his face and he wiped at it irritably with a corner of his blanket.

 

He recognized that his own condition was worsening and bit his lip against the groan that threatened at the increased pains in his mid-section. He had been sincere in his desire to allow Dupuy as much rest as possible and worried that he might have to wake the man sooner than he’d hoped. d’Artagnan had been a relatively healthy child growing up and was certain that he’d never felt as badly as he did right now. The thought that his symptoms would intensify as the night wore on frightened him, not only for himself but for what his friend had already been enduring for the past day. He knew that it had been difficult for the proud man to accept his help as he weakened with the lack of food and rest and the increased pain he now struggled against. Laying a hand on Porthos’ shoulder, he hoped that his brother realized that the Gascon offered his help freely and without judgement, knowing that it was the tainted water that caused the current state, not any lack of strength on Porthos’ part.

 

Another cramp tore through d’Artagnan’s middle, folding him nearly in half as he panted through it, arms wrapped firmly around his midsection. When it had eased, he dragged a sleeve across his face, removing the sweat that threatened to drip into his eyes. It would not be long now and the Gascon glanced over at the sleeping physician, dreading the moment when he’d have to make his way over to the man to wake him. He peered blearily at a clock on the fireplace mantle, noting that midnight had passed. He set a goal for himself that he would allow Dupuy another hour of rest before interrupting his sleep and took a sip of tea, grimacing as his stomach clenched unhappily. He clamped his jaw shut and breathed through his nose, vowing not to be sick. A moan from his prone friend on the bed attracted his attention and he forcibly uncurled himself to wet a cloth and wipe the man’s face.

 

The cool cloth seemed to rouse Porthos further and d’Artagnan waited with bated breath to see if his friend would wake. The Gascon watched as Porthos struggled with heavy eyelids, his brow furrowing as he attempted to open his eyes. When they finally did open, d’Artagnan affixed a small smile to his face, not wanting his friend to see his own suffering. Cupping Porthos’ cheek with one hand, the Gascon braced himself against the bed with his other, feeling too weak and in pain to rely on his sore stomach muscles to hold him up. “How are you feeling?”

 

Porthos’ eyes worked hard to focus and when they finally did, he exhaled a single, quiet word, “Hurts.”

 

“Your stomach?” the Gascon confirmed. A slight nod was the only response. Sliding his hand down to squeeze Porthos’ shoulder, he whispered back, “I’ll be right back.”

 

Grimacing as he pushed his reluctant body upright, the Gascon steadied himself on the chair back before shuffling over to the fireplace where the stones continued to heat. Wrapping one in a blanket, he returned to Porthos side, placing it on the chair so both his hands would be free. Porthos’ eyes had closed but by the lines of pain around the man’s eyes, d’Artagnan knew he was still awake. “Porthos, I need you to straighten out a bit so I can help.”

 

He was again treated to his friend’s bleary gaze and a few moments later, Porthos started shifting, attempting to do as he’d been asked. d’Artagnan helped him by pulling the blanket back and pushing Porthos’ knees downward, just enough so that he could remove the cooled stone and replace it with the hot one. As soon as the heat transferred through the blanket to his midsection, the large man let a sigh of relief escape him and he tightened again around its source. With one hand around his own aching midsection, d’Artagnan used the other to tuck the blanket firmly around his friend’s shoulders. Doubting he’d be able to stand again once he sat down, he moved to gather the cup of tea he’d prepared earlier and then eased himself slowly into his seat. “Porthos,” he said, sliding a hand under the man’s head, “you need to drink.” He placed the cup against his friend’s lips and Porthos opened obligingly, taking several swallows before leaning away from the liquid.

 

Without the energy to return to the table, d’Artagnan bent over sideways to place the cup on the ground, barely stifling a groan as a spike of pain sliced through his mid-section. For several long moments, he found himself unable to lift back up into a sitting position and simply lay sprawled over his legs as he waited for the agony to abate. When he felt it had eased enough, he placed a hand on the bed next to the chair, intending to push himself up but the pain returned tenfold, tearing a cry from his throat. He was barely aware of the fact that he was now panting heavily, an act made all the more difficult by his position. He could feel the sweat dripping down the sides of his face and pooling at his neck as he dug for the strength to push himself upright. Once more he attempted to brace himself with the bed and a deep fire exploded with him, turning his vision momentarily white and then black. With the darkness a last cry was driven from his lungs as he toppled sideways out of the chair and landed heavily on his side, striking his head soundly on the bedframe.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is this what you expected?” Athos asked.
> 
> Aramis shook his head, pale at the knowledge of what their friends had endured. “No,” he whispered, “this is far worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who took the time to comment on the last chapter and apologies for the unintentional cliff hanger. Here's a somewhat longer chapter to make up for it.

Athos was already awake when Aramis opened his eyes to the first few rays of sunshine that cast weak shadows along the floor and one side of their room. Rolling onto his back, he quietly lay for several moments staring at the ceiling before he noticed that the body next to him was sitting up rather than lying down. Rolling his head, Aramis caught Athos’ gaze and noted that the older man’s lips were quirked slightly in amusement. Rubbing a hand across his face before sitting up as well, Aramis gave him an inquiring look, “What?”

 

“You’re like a cat,” Athos stated fondly, “needing to wake slowly and stretch before you’re willing to get up and face the day.”

 

Aramis sputtered at the comparison, but was inwardly pleased that his friend felt well enough to tease him. When he’d finished being indignant he turned to sit at the edge of the bed, pulling his boots on as he asked, “How are you feeling today?”

 

The older man didn’t answer right away but instead flexed his leg muscles to gauge the level of soreness and stiffness present in the abused limbs. “Overall, not too bad,” he admitted.

 

Aramis turned sideways to face him and nodded, “Good. Once you’re back on your horse, they’ll probably feel worse, but for now we’ll consider this a win.” Standing, he motioned to the chamber pot and asked, “Do you need help?”

 

They had long ago moved past the point of being embarrassed about their bodily needs, each of them having cared for the others in various states of illness or injury. Athos considered his friend’s question and then replied, “Just to stand, I think.”

 

Aramis nodded and moved to Athos’ side of the bed, helping the older man to shift his legs around until his feet were planted on the floor, and then grasping both arms and lifting him gently to his feet. At Athos’ short nod, Aramis stepped away and headed for the door, throwing over his shoulder as he went, “I’ll get us some breakfast.”

 

When he returned, Athos had managed to return to the bed and was sitting on the edge, contemplating his breeches which lay across his lap. Aramis grinned at the sight, knowing that Athos’ muscles would be stiffening up again and would likely be feeling worse today than the day before. He crossed the floor to the bed, handing Athos the tray of food in exchange for the man’s breeches, which he tossed on the end of the bed. Waiting until Athos had put the tray down near the middle of the mattress, Aramis helped him to swing his sore legs back up and reposition himself against the wall at the head of the bed.

 

Aramis reached for the salve he’d used the night before and nodded at the food he’d brought, “Eat. When I’ve finished, I’ll help you dress and then go saddle the horses. You can settle up with the innkeeper and then we’ll be on our way.” Grudgingly, Athos reached for a baguette, doing his best stifle the gasp that was almost wrung from him at Aramis’ first touch on his bruised and tender legs. When he’d finished, Athos smelt heavily of eucalyptus again, but the relief in his muscles was well worth it. True to his word, Aramis helped Athos dress in his breeches and boots, then grabbed a baguette of his own before collecting the rest of their belongings, reattaching his weapons around his hips and swinging their saddlebags across his shoulders.

 

Athos moved stiffly through the doorway of their room and stared at the long flight of stairs facing him. Without a word, Aramis ducked under one shoulder and helped his friend down the steps, ignoring the hissed intakes of air that signalled Athos’ discomfort. Athos lifted his arm from his friend’s shoulders when they had reached the bottom, a tilt of his head indicating his appreciation for the assistance he’d received. Then, Athos turned to locate the innkeeper while Aramis exited the inn to prepare things outside.

 

By the time that Athos had made his way to the stables, Aramis had both mounts saddled and stood tightening the girth on his horse. Looking up at Athos’ appearance, Aramis did a last visual check of his friend’s condition, evaluating his ability to ride, and then moved to help the older man into the saddle. As he’d expected, getting into the saddle was painful, but once there, the ache in his legs settled to a dull throb. Tugging on his horse’s reigns to turn him in the direction of the road, Athos firmly applied pressure from his heels to the animal’s side and they moved out at a comfortable walk. Aramis knew that Athos would be chafing at the pace but he silently applauded his friend’s restraint, both men having recognized that the rest of their trip would be best completed slowly but steadily. Recalling the route back to the chateau, Aramis quickly calculated how long it would take them to reach their destination, estimating an arrival time of just before noon. For the hundredth time, he wondered at his friends’ condition and what awaited them when they arrived.

* * *

Some part of Dupuy’s mind heard the double thuds of d’Artagnan’s body and head as they struck, but when the sound wasn’t repeated, the man slipped back into slumber, the previous day’s events having drained his energy. His next awareness was of intermittent groaning, which was repeated often enough that it cut through his fatigued state and forced him to wakefulness. As he opened his eyes and looked at his surroundings, he recalled the events of the previous night and the young man’s promise that he would wake the physician when he was needed. Frowning at the amount of sunlight now pouring through the large windows, Dupuy pushed himself up on one arm and scrubbed away the remnants of his sleep before pulling his boots on. The groan was repeated and the physician looked up sharply, realizing the sound came from the man lying in bed. What he didn’t see was the Gascon, who he’d last seen perched resolutely in the chair at his friend’s bedside. His scowl deepening, Dupuy hurried over to the bed to check on his patient, nearly stumbling over the man on the floor in his haste.

 

The mystery of the missing young man was solved, but Dupuy’s shock at finding the man on the ground was replaced instantly with a deep worry. The boy was curled tightly, legs drawn up to his chest, and the part of his face that wasn’t covered by damp hair was unnaturally pale. The young man’s frame was rattled by the occasional shiver and the physician grabbed the discarded blanket from the chair, covering the Gascon before his attention was drawn back to his other patient with another low moan.

 

Shaking his head, Dupuy realized that he needed help so he crossed to the door and flung it open, yelling for someone to assist him. Within moments a servant had arrived and he dispatched the girl to rouse his helpers from his rooms. While he awaited their arrival, Dupuy went to check on Porthos, who was now tossing his head in discomfort, accompanied the continued sounds of pain. Placing a hand on the man’s brow he attempted to rouse his patient. “Monsieur Porthos, can you hear me?” A near whimper escaped but there was little other indication that the man was aware. Moving his hand down to the man’s shoulder, Dupuy shook it gently, again calling to Porthos to open his eyes. His patience was rewarded as two watery brown eyes met his and the physician breathed out a sigh that his patient had woken.

 

“Monsieur Porthos, are you in pain?” Porthos looked at Dupuy, trying to remember who he was and then, seemingly deciding that he could be trusted, offered a short nod. “Is it your stomach?” the physician queried. Another small nod had Dupuy pulling back the blanket and straightening the man’s body enough to pry the now cold stone away from him, earning another weak sound of protest. “I know, Monsieur, but I promise this will help.”

 

Dupuy stepped away, carefully moving around d’Artagnan’s body, and collected a heated stone which he placed against the Musketeer’s belly. When Porthos was covered once again, the physician wet a cloth and wiped the man’s face and neck, asking, “Can you drink?” Porthos’ glassy eyes met his for a moment before closing, so Dupuy decided to try regardless and managed to pour a little of the cooled tea into the sick man’s mouth. As he stood from his patient his two assistants arrived and Dupuy ordered them immediately to lift the young man from the floor and to place him next to his friend on the other side of the large bed. After giving them instructions to check on the other patients and then return with both breakfast and an update, he dismissed the two and turned his attention to the Gascon.

 

He started by wiping the man’s face and neck, removing the sticky sweat before placing his hand on the young man’s brow. He was taken aback by the heat he found there; most of his patients, while suffering with a fever, had not felt nearly as warm as the young man before him did. A patch of red skin caught his attention as he removed his hand and he peered closely at it, eventually prodding at it with his fingertips, discovering a sizeable reddened knot on the Gascon’s temple. This was likely the reason for the young man’s insensible state, and Dupuy clucked unhappily at the discovery. Even though the young man was either unconscious or deeply asleep, his face wore a scowl that belied the amount of pain he was experiencing and he had curled into a foetal position as soon as he’d been laid on the bed.

 

Dupuy patted the young man’s cheek in an effort to wake the boy, concerned about the amount of time that he may have spent on the floor before being found. “Monsieur d’Artagnan, can you wake up for me?” When this garnered no reaction, the physician moved his hand lower and pinched an earlobe, earning a deeper frown but nothing more. Now frowning as well, the physician moved his hand lower still, rubbing his knuckles firmly along the boy’s sternum. This earned a low groan and Dupuy tried speaking to him again, “I need you to wake up for me, Monsieur d’Artagnan. I know it’s difficult, but you must try.”

 

The Gascon’s eyes opened to small slits of brown; this, however, was not enough for the physician who reached up a hand to open each lid in turn to examine the young man’s pupils. d’Artagnan tried to move his head away but Dupuy easily held it in place long enough to complete his inspection, tutting at the uneven pupils he found. Placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder, the physician sighed, “Ah, Monsieur, why do I get the feeling that you do everything the hard way, hmm?” Hoping to increase the Gascon’s level of awareness, the physician wiped at his face and neck again and then lifted his head slightly to allow him to drink. When the liquid touched his lips, d’Artagnan tried to turn his head away but Dupuy held him firm and coaxed him to take a couple sips. When he began choking, the cup was pulled away and his shoulders were raised further off the mattress while a few weak coughs were pushed from his chest. It seemed that the coughing did more to wake the boy than anything else the physician had tried and Dupuy now found himself being watched by two cloudy eyes.

 

“Monsieur d’Artagnan, it is good to see you awake. How are you?”

 

The Gascon’s eyes seem to roll for a second before refocusing on the man above him and he breathed out, “Porthos?”

 

Dupuy glanced at the other side of the bed, “Right beside you. I’ve just changed out the cold stone for a warm one and gotten him to drink. And you?”

 

“Any change?” the Gascon persisted.

 

The physician shook his head in quiet exasperation as he answered, “No, there’s been no change. He’s a strong man and he’s still holding on. Now, how are you feeling?”

 

d’Artagnan offered a one-sided shrug, seemingly worn out by the short conversation. “How is your pain?” Dupuy prompted.

 

“Hurts,” the Gascon whispered, his eyes beginning to close.

 

“You need to drink,” Dupuy said, already grabbing the cup with one hand while the other moved to lift the young man’s head. Again, d’Artagnan attempted to move away and the physician paused his movements for a moment. “Monsieur d’Artagnan, I was given to believe that you are a strong-willed man.” The Gascon’s eyes opened at this statement and Dupuy smiled at the reaction. “If that is true, you must draw on that determination now and do everything you can to hold on until your friends return.” Several moments passed before d’Artagnan obligingly opened his mouth to drink. When he’d finished, Dupuy gave him a heated stone, which he immediately curled around, closing his eyes to be alone with his misery.

 

Dupuy stretched his back as one of his assistants returned with a breakfast tray and an update on his other patients. While the physician cared about all of the stricken under his care, he found his attention being continuously drawn to the two men in the bed behind him, fervently praying that their friends returned sooner than later.

* * *

When the chateau came into sight, Athos couldn’t help but nudge his horse into a trot, clenching his jaw firmly shut against any sounds of pain that threatened to escape as his battered leg muscles cried with the strain of the increased pace. Normally Aramis would have called for Athos to slow down, but now that they were nearly at their destination, he found himself just as desperate to see how their friends’ were faring. As soon as they’d passed through the gates of the chateau, Athos pulled his horse to a jerky stop, bending forward for several moments to compose himself after the strain he’d placed on his legs. Aramis smoothly dismounted, handing off his horse’s reigns, before moving to Athos’ side to help him down. Athos gave him a grateful look before stiffly swinging a leg over and sliding down, stumbling when his feet hit the ground. Aramis held him steady as Athos waited for the stiffness to ease enough that he could start moving forward and Aramis walked beside him, matching his pace, in case the older man faltered as they walked.

 

Entering the chateau, Athos scowled at the large staircase that awaited them but he didn’t pause, moving to place his foot on the first step, even as Aramis again ducked beneath one shoulder to offer his aid. They moved relatively quickly in this fashion and soon found themselves in front of the door to Porthos’ room, both men hesitating in dread at what might await them inside. Sharing a quick glance, Aramis pushed the door open, allowing Athos to enter first and following quickly on his heels. The Musketeers’ observant eyes noted the man sitting at the table and the fire that burned regardless of the warmth of the day, but they ignored these things, moving instead to the bed that dominated the centre of the room.

 

Their friends lay on either side of the large mattress, facing away from each other, curled tightly into themselves. Neither man was moving, except for the slight lift of their shoulders as they inhaled and exhaled. The two Musketeers were hardly recognizable as the two friends who’d ridden from Paris nearly two weeks earlier, joyous and carefree and full of anticipation of the relaxing days that were to come. Instead, the men’s normally darker skin tones had unnaturally lightened, their faces taking on a gaunt appearance that demonstrated how ill they both were.

 

“Mon Dieu,” Aramis whispered, crossing to check on Porthos, while Athos gravitated to the other side to see how d’Artagnan was doing.

 

“Monsieur Aramis, Athos, it is good to see you back safely,” Dupuy stood from the table and walked to the bed.

 

The man’s voice was almost unexpected, startling the two men, but Aramis recovered quickly. “How are they?” he asked. Athos looked up expectantly for the physician’s reply.

 

“I know it may not seem like it, but they are doing as well as they can be,” Dupuy answered compassionately.

 

Aramis nodded and his gaze returned to his friends, and he couldn’t restrain himself from sitting on the bed and placing a hand on Porthos’ arm. “How long has it been?”

 

“Nearly two days for Monsieur Porthos and just slightly less for Monsieur d’Artagnan.” Allowing for a few seconds of silence to pass, Dupuy inquired, “Was your trip successful?”

 

“Yes,” Aramis looked up sharply, having forgotten the precious cargo he carried. Reaching a hand into his doublet, he removed the bag he carried there, offering it to the physician. “Will it be enough?”

 

Dupuy opened the bag to examine its contents, nodding. “I believe it will be. I will grind some of the root so we can brew it into a tea and then we can give it to your friends as soon as possible.” He paused momentarily, before confirming, “You still intend to treat your friends with this, regardless of the consequences?”

 

Aramis looked torn, wanting to help his friends but also fearing the risks involved, and it was Athos who confidently answered, “Yes, as soon as you have it ready. We’ll stay here to help them through the effects for as long as it takes.”

 

Dupuy nodded in understanding and left the two men alone in the room. Athos placed a hand on d’Artagnan’s brow, brushing the damp locks away from his face and shuddering at the heat he felt there. Turning to Aramis, he asked, “How are they?”

 

Returning his gaze, Aramis offered a small shrug, “Dupuy is right. They’re doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances; unfortunately that still means that they are very ill.” Aramis pointed meaningfully at the chamber pots that stood on either sides of the bed, both men familiar with the symptoms that were now ravaging their friends’ bodies.

 

“What can we do?” Athos asked uncertainly.

 

“Just make them comfortable for now. There’s really not much else to be done until Dupuy returns.” To put his words into action, Aramis wet the cloth in the bowl of water that sat next to the bed, and began to wipe Porthos’ face with it, folding it and placing it on the man’s brow when he’d finished. Taking his lead from Aramis, Athos followed suit and did the same, re-wetting the cloth time and again in an effort to keep the Gascon cool while his body battled the fever that raged within him.

* * *

Dupuy was true to his word and returned within an hour with two cups of warm tea. Handing a cup to each man, he reminded them, “There is little known about this cure and not everyone survives. It’s also said that the cure is nearly as bad as the illness so, if you’re to do this, please be prepared.”

 

The Musketeers politely listened to the physician’s warning and then turned as one to lift their friends’ heads up and attempt to get them to drink. Porthos awoke fairly quickly and after a few seconds of blinking, it was clear he recognized Aramis sitting next to him, offering a weak smile in greeting. “Porthos, we have the cure. I need you to drink this.” Porthos compliantly opened his mouth, his faith in his friends absolute. Aramis hesitated and explained, “The cure may be worse than the sickness and you may not survive. Are you sure?” Porthos simply opened his mouth again, giving his approval to administer it.

 

In the time that it took for Porthos to drain his cup, Athos had not even managed to wake his friend and Dupuy moved to his side to offer assistance. As he leaned over the sleeping man to pinch an earlobe he explained apologetically, “He was very stubborn and insisted I rest while he watched over Monsieur Porthos. I’m afraid he took a turn for the worse at some point during the night and hit his head when he fell from his chair.”

 

Athos looked at the man sharply and worked to restrain himself from unleashing an angry retort at the fact that d’Artagnan had been hurt under the physician’s care. The Gascon groaned in response to Dupuy’s actions and Athos’ attention was drawn back to his protégé, murmuring to the boy and encouraging him to wake. A smile quirked his lips as d’Artagnan’s eyes opened. “d’Artagnan, it’s Athos. Aramis and I have the cure and I need you to drink.” The Gascon seemed to be processing the older man’s words, his mind fuzzy from a combination of the illness and his head injury. When it seemed that the young man would ignore Athos’ words, his lips parted and Athos helped him drain the contents of the cup.

 

Replacing the boy’s head on the pillow, Athos addressed the other two men, “What now?”

 

Dupuy shrugged, “Now we wait. Little is known about this root but I expect we’ll know relatively quickly if it’s had any effect.”

 

Aramis nodded and stood, taking Athos’ cup from his hand and placing both on the table. “Thank you for taking care of them in our absence.” Knowing that they both wanted some time alone with their brothers he suggested, “We’ll tend to them now; I know that you have other patients to attend to.”

 

Recognizing the dismissal for what it was, Dupuy nodded, “I’ll return later to check on them. If you have need of my services earlier, please have one of the staff come and find me.”

 

Once the physician had left, Athos turned to Aramis, pinning the other man with a serious look and repeating his question from earlier. “What can we do now?”

 

A smiled ghosted across the other man’s face as he replied, “Just make them comfortable. It’s likely that they’re going to be very ill and we’ll need to force them to drink and help them to cope with their discomfort.” More quietly he said, “Unfortunately, there’s not much else we can do.”

 

Clearly, Aramis’ answer was unsatisfactory and Athos stood and began to pace in an effort to burn off some of the nervous energy that now burned throughout his body. Aramis smiled at him ruefully, recognizing the older man’s frustration at the situation, and made no attempt to still his motion. The next quarter hour passed in relative quiet, Aramis puttering with the cloths and refreshing the water in the two bowls that sat on either side of the bed, moving the chamber pots within reach and generally just keeping himself busy. Athos continued to pace, although he’d slowed down somewhat from when he’d started, his still sore leg muscles protesting the motion.

 

The first indication that something was happening was announced by a low groan from Porthos. Moving immediately to the man’s side, Aramis leaned over to speak to his friend, “Porthos, can you hear me?” He placed a comforting hand on the man’s messy curls as another moan emerged. “I need to see that you’re awake, Porthos, open your eyes for me,” Aramis coaxed.

 

The ill man went from stock still to a flurry of motion in seconds, eyes snapping open and roaming wildly, pushing his upper body up on one trembling arm as his lips clamped down tightly. Fortunately Aramis had anticipated the reaction and he nudged the chamber pot into position with a foot while helping his friend roll his upper body over the side of the bed so he could hit his target. For several minutes, Porthos was violently ill, his body expelling the meager amounts of liquid he’d managed to ingest. When his stomach was empty, he suffered through dry heaves, bringing up nothing but bile which had him moaning miserably between each painful clench of his stomach muscles. When he’d finished, tears ran from his eyes and he limply dropped back onto the bed, still hanging partially off the side until Aramis lifted him gently back into place.

 

Throughout Porthos’ suffering, Athos had stood watching, not knowing what to do and realizing for the first time just how bad things were going to get with the cure they’d administered in order to save the men’s lives. He swallowed dryly, his eyes being pulled to d’Artagnan who still lay quietly on the bed. Soon, the young man would experience the same consequences and despite what the two would endure, there was no guarantee that either man would survive. Athos scrubbed a hand across his face, hating the feeling of helplessness that now overcame him as he watched Aramis tenderly wipe Porthos’ face.

 

He was shaken from his daze when Aramis called to him, “Athos, fetch me that cup of tea.” Athos moved to collect the desired item, handing it to Aramis who barely glanced at him, his attention solely on the condition of his patient. “Porthos,” he cajoled, “you must try to drink a little.” Lifting the man’s head and pressing the cup to his lips, Aramis managed to pour a few drops into his friend’s mouth before Porthos screwed up his face and refused any more. Aramis sighed despondently, knowing that the scant amount his friend had consumed would not be enough to help during the difficult hours ahead.

 

Noticing his reaction, Athos asked, “Surely, we cannot expect him to consume much while his stomach is so upset?”

 

Aramis threw him a dark look, which Athos knew was only the result of his deep worry, “You’d rather he endure the agony of dry heaves instead?” Aramis dropped his head immediately, contrite at his harsh words and Athos placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder to let him know that there were no hard feelings. Taking a deep breath, Aramis spoke more calmly, “If he doesn’t drink, he’ll become dehydrated. That can kill him just as easily as the sickness that’s poisoned his body.”

 

Nodding in understanding, Athos declared, “Then we will pour it down their throats no matter how difficult. Our brothers **_will not_** be defeated by this.”

 

Aramis threw him a grateful smile and motioned to d’Artagnan, “How is he doing?” At Aramis’ words, Athos returned to his gaze to the young man, noting that he no longer rested peacefully but had instead started to stir as if in discomfort.

 

Moving to sit next to the boy, he responded, “I believe he is starting to feel the effects as well.” Athos ensured the chamber pot was within easy reach and placed a hand on the young man’s head, pushing the sweaty locks away from his face. He was struck again how young the Gascon appeared and Athos’ heart clenched at the thought that this boy might never reach an age where wrinkles would etch themselves into the landscape of his face. d’Artagnan jerked under his hand as if trying to draw himself into a tighter ball and Athos murmured softly, trying to comfort him. The Gascon’s hand clenched and unclenched, grasping at the edge of the mattress, and Athos could now hear quiet whimpers accompanying each shaky exhale. Athos exchanged looks with Aramis, both men anticipating the intense reaction that was building in the boy’s belly.

 

Unlike Porthos, d’Artagnan gave little additional warning of what was to come, tossing his head weakly with his eyes firmly closed. Aramis would speculate later that it may have been the head injury that prevented the young man from being aware enough to push himself to the side of the bed before being sick. The result was that the first wave of the boy’s illness splattered onto the sheets in front of his face and it took several seconds before Athos had pulled the boy forward, allowing his head to hang off the side so that the chamber pot could catch the rest. By then, d’Artagnan was helplessly heaving, weak coughs sporadically being forced from his lips in between the exhalations of watery vomit. The Gascon’s hand had moved from the edge of the bed to clutch at Athos’ shirt and the older man lowered his head to the boy’s, attempting to whisper words of assurance as he held the boy in place. When the bout of sickness had passed, Athos lowered d’Artagnan to the bed, still keeping him on his side and rubbing soothing circles on his back as his frame was wracked by continued coughing.

 

Athos looked to Aramis who had carefully observed everything from his place next to Porthos and was now carrying a cup of tea to Athos so he could assist the boy in having a drink. As the coughs persisted, Aramis frowned and for the first time he noticed the puddle of sickness that stained the sheets near the boy’s head. Putting the tea down, Aramis grabbed a blanket and had the other man lift d’Artagnan’s head and shoulders from the mattress. Swiftly, he placed the blanket over the sickness, knowing that changing the sheets after each episode of illness would likely prove to be a battle they could not win. Next, Aramis wet a clean cloth and proceeded to wipe the remains of the boy’s sickness from his lips and chin; surprisingly, the Gascon remained seemingly unaware of their presence throughout.

 

“Why is he coughing?” Athos asked when Aramis straightened from tending the young man.

 

Athos could see the frown on his friend’s face at the question he’d posed and Aramis bit his lip for a moment before replying. “It’s possible he may have inhaled some of the sickness because of the position he was in. We may need to try propping them both up against pillows to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

 

Sensing there was more than what he’d just been told, Athos pressed his friend. “What would that mean, if he inhaled some of it?”

 

The look of reluctance was back on Aramis’ face and he looked at the floor as he replied, “It could lead to pneumonia.” Lifting his gaze to his friend’s, he continued, “We’ll need to keep watch over his breathing.”

 

“With everything else that’s happening, how will we be able to tell?” Athos countered.

 

Aramis offered a small shrug, “We’ll need to listen to his chest. If pneumonia develops, the crackling there will be difficult to miss.”

 

Athos seemed defeated and he merely hung his head in acknowledgement, staring for several minutes at his hands, which rested in his lap. Leaving him to his thoughts, Aramis moved to rid them of the soiled chamber pots before returning to sit in his chair next to Porthos’ side.

 

Taking a breath and forcing calmness that he didn’t feel, Athos came back to himself, realizing that he still needed d’Artagnan to drink if he were to have any chance of surviving the coming days. As he moved forward to rouse the young man, Porthos began making sounds of distress, clearly about to be sick again.

 

This time Aramis pulled his friend to sit up, keeping an arm around the man’s shoulders to keep him upright, and balancing the chamber pot in Porthos’ lap with his other hand. The force of that man’s illness was just as great as the first time and Porthos slumped helplessly over the pot, completely unable to control what was happening to his body. It seemed that this time the man would receive no reprieve, and Aramis released the chamber pot for a moment to wipe his sleeve across Porthos’ face as tears continued to leak from the man’s eyes. Aramis’ heart clenched as he sought to offer his friend some comfort through his touch and his words, fearfully watching the spasms that wouldn’t abate and cringing at each sound of suffering that was emitted.

 

On the other side of the bed, Athos had decided not to risk d’Artagnan inhaling what he’d vomited and had also pulled the young man up to lean against his shoulder. The Gascon’s head lolled limply, lacking either the awareness or strength to hold it up. Athos didn’t have an opportunity to offer the cup of tea to the young man as he began heaving in earnest, bringing up nothing but stringy bile since his stomach was completely empty at this point. The episode seemed to go on forever and Athos was shocked to discover that by the time both men had finished a half hour had passed. After laying his brother back down, having unsuccessfully tried to tempt the boy with the cool tea, Athos stood up shakily to exchange glances with Aramis.

 

“Is this what you expected?” Athos asked.

 

Aramis shook his head, pale at the knowledge of what their friends had endured. “No,” he whispered, “this is far worse.”

 

Athos knew how deeply this would have affected his friend and, even though they had all agreed on this course of action, Aramis would no doubt be blaming himself for the ill effects the two men were experiencing. Clearing his throat, he questioned, “Do you think they’ll be alright for a bit?”

 

Aramis seemed uncharacteristically uncertain, but after a moment’s thought replied, “I believe so. Everything that we’ve been told indicates severe sickness soon after consumption of the root but nothing more once the body has purged itself fully.”

 

Athos nodded, “Then why don’t you go and get some air?” Aramis’ head shot up, pinning his friend with an unbelieving look. Sensing the argument that was brewing, Athos continued before Aramis could interrupt. “We’ll need our wits about us to help them get better and,” he offered a slight smile, “I could do with some wine. Why don’t you go for a short walk to clear your head and then bring something back for us?”

 

Aramis’ first instinct was to disagree, but even though he didn’t want to acknowledge it, he saw the wisdom in his friend’s suggestion. Offering a slight nod of agreement, he stood and walked wearily to the door. “Send for me if anything changes.” He didn’t stop to hear Athos’ reply, trusting that his friend would follow his instructions if needed.

 

Once Aramis had left, Athos turned to look at the Gascon who lay pale and sweating, his body still racked by the occasional cough. “You must get better now d’Artagnan.” His gaze shifted to Porthos on the other side of the bed. “You must both get better.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had little memory of the time when he’d been sick, but knew instinctively that there was a part of him that had been surprised to still be alive.

Aramis had managed to stay away for nearly an hour, returning with a much calmer countenance and with both food and wine for them to sustain themselves with. Later that evening, Dupuy had returned and, with Aramis’ permission, had examined both patients and was largely pleased with their state, save for d’Artagnan’s sporadic coughs. He had assured both men that the other patients had experienced similar reactions and were now being carefully watched by his assistants and the Comte’s staff. The physician fully expected that everyone would begin to show increased signs of awareness within the day and improved health soon after; the biggest challenge now would be to force nutrients into their patients’ ravaged bodies so they would have the strength to recover.

 

As Dupuy had predicted, Porthos began to steadily improve and by the following afternoon, he’d managed a cup of broth and had even laid partly inclined against a mass of pillows at his back, speaking in low tones with his two friends. They had both been shocked by the hoarseness of the man’s voice from his lengthy bouts of sickness, and cringed sympathetically at the discomfort that stemmed from his overtaxed stomach muscles. They had taken advantage of Porthos’ wakefulness to assist the man to a chair at the table, then carried d’Artagnan to the cot so they could change the soiled bedding. When they’d finished, Porthos lay tiredly against the pillows, clearly having been worn out from the short sojourn from bed. d’Artagnan lay propped against several pillows even though he had not yet awakened from the day prior, despite the best efforts of Aramis, Athos and even Dupuy. Where Porthos was getting better, the Gascon seemed to be getting worse, his heated skin still flushed with fever and his breathing labored as he seemed to battle for every inhale.

 

Dupuy had confirmed their worst fears when he’d laid his ear against d’Artagnan’s chest, listening to the crackling sounds that were present and diagnosing the young man with pneumonia. He’d prepared a draught immediately that Athos had forced into him through a combination of pleading and pure determination, holding the boy’s mouth closed after each cupful until the boy’s body reflexively swallowed. When he’d finished, Athos devoutly hoped that the boy would regain his wits soon; he’d nearly been undone by the weak flailing of the boy’s arms as he’d tried to resist the liquid being poured into his mouth. Aramis had placed several herbs in a small bowl, pouring water over them, and placing them to heat over a candle close to d’Artagnan’s head. The concoction scented the area with a mildly minty aroma, which Aramis believed would allow the Gascon to breathe easier. A second batch of herbs was ground into a thick paste and applied liberally to the boy’s chest, another attempt on Aramis’ part to nurse the boy back to health.

 

By the third day, Porthos had moved from the bed and spent his nights in the room next door, which had been initially given to d’Artagnan. Aramis refused to allow him to sit watch over the Gascon during the evenings, reminding him that he was still very weak and recovering. However d’Artagnan was never alone, Athos and Aramis sleeping in shifts in the cot or, when the exhaustion overcame them unexpectedly, waking to find themselves stiff and uncomfortable in the chair at the Gascon’s side.

 

That day, the young man’s symptoms seemed to climax; he was now sitting nearly upright in bed and struggled for every shallow intake of air. Aramis had noticed the blue tinge to his lips and was now desperately trying every trick he’d ever learned in his years of treating his fellow soldiers. Dupuy was similarly desperate and had no further ideas, simply encouraging the men to continue what they’d been doing and to clap the man’s back soundly in an effort to release some of what now clogged the boy’s lungs.

 

Athos had finally removed himself to the cot and slept fitfully, while Porthos had been persuaded to take a short nap next door, still tiring easily after his ordeal. Aramis sat diligently washing their young friend down with a cloth in an effort to keep the dangerously high fever from climbing further. Like the others, he felt overwhelming fatigue but would not willingly leave the boy’s side while his state was so precarious. Squinting at the young man through bleary eyes that refused to focus, Aramis found himself leaning forward to place a hand on the boy’s chest. The room had fallen unusually silent and it took Aramis several seconds to realize the cause – the boy’s wheezing breaths had stopped. Flinging himself from his chair with a cry, Aramis placed his face in front of the young man’s mouth, confirming the lack of breaths. He moved his ear to the boy’s chest, relieved to still feel the thumping of the young man’s heart even though his chest had stilled.

 

Athos had been roused by Aramis’ cry and now stood next to Aramis, waiting to hear the outcome of his examination. “He’s stopped breathing,” Aramis gasped. He pushed the older man down onto the bed, and pulled the Gascon forward into Athos’ arms. Slumped as he was, Athos could feel the unnatural stillness of his brothers’ body and gripped him tightly around the lower back and neck, pulling him closer. Aramis took a hand to the boy’s back, surprising Athos with the ferocity of the first hit, but willing to do anything to bring the boy back to them. He held tightly as the Gascon’s body shook with each subsequent strike, accompanied by a litany of pleading phrases that fell from Aramis’ lips.

 

Time seemed to stand still until the Gascon seemed to convulse in Athos’ arms, and he pulled the boy away from him quickly, still supporting him with hands on both shoulders. d’Artagnan coughed weakly and Aramis grabbed a clean cloth which he placed at the Gascon’s mouth, thumping him again on the back. Another cough was forced from the boy’s lips and Aramis drew the cloth away, checking quickly to confirm that the boy had successfully managed to dislodge some of what had been choking the air from his lungs. d’Artagnan drew a shaky breath as Athos pulled him back into a gentle embrace, whispering words of encouragement into his ear as he rubbed slow circles on the boy’s back. One breath turned into two and, while the boy still fought for every inhale, he was soon breathing somewhat regularly.

 

Aramis placed a hand on Athos’ shoulder to get his attention, indicating the mound of pillows, “We can lay him down again.”

 

Athos was hesitant to break contact with the young man, but eventually nodded and the two worked together to replace the boy in his previous position. Athos looked at Aramis, the fear still raw on his face, “He stopped breathing.” It was a statement, not a question, and Aramis simply nodded.

 

“We’ll need to be far more diligent about clapping him on the back. He needs to cough in order to expel the congestion in his lungs, otherwise this is liable to happen again,” Aramis explained.

 

“He’s alright for now?” Both men looked up sharply at the new voice, seeing Porthos moving slowly across the room, his eyes fixed firmly on their young friend. Aramis strode to his side, placing a hand at his elbow, steering him to sit in a chair and pulling the blanket he wore more firmly around him.

 

“Yes, he’s alright for now,” Aramis confirmed.

 

“I’m not leavin’ again,” the large man stated, still staring at the boy.

 

Aramis patted his friend’s knee in understanding. While the young man remained so ill, it was unlikely that any of them would be parted from his side.

 

The three men stayed with d’Artagnan from that point onward, with Aramis and Athos only leaving when absolutely necessary and Porthos returning to the young man’s side to share the bed when sleep demanded he close his eyes. For two days they lived in this fashion, going through the motions of eating and sleeping only because they needed their strength to be able to care for their friend. d’Artagnan’s body was still consumed by fever and Aramis privately feared that he would soon succumb, lacking the energy to fight it any longer.

 

Athos was sitting by the young man’s side when he heard a shift in the wheezing breaths that they’d become accustomed to. Fearing another attack that would leave the boy choking for air, Athos began to stand, preparing to pull the boy forward so he could access his back. In mid-motion, he noticed the young man’s eyes, open only partially but quite obviously focused on him. “d’Artagnan?” Athos asked hesitantly. The Gascon lips parted to speak but his breath caught in his throat and he coughed instead. Pulling him forward slightly, Athos supported him against his chest as he patted the man’s back, helping to dislodge the matter that still clogged his lungs. When he’d finished, Athos allowed the boy lean back, and seeing the look of disgust on the boy’s mouth, he held a cloth under it. “Spit,” Athos ordered kindly and the young man obliged, nodding gratefully to the older man. Athos held a cup to the boy’s lips, pushing his trembling hand down when the he tried to take it from Athos’ hand. When he’d managed a few sips, Athos asked, “How are you feeling?”

 

The Gascon drew a careful breath and spoke in a broken voice, “Hot. Sore.” He closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed gingerly. “Wha’ happened?”

 

Athos brushed back the damp bangs from d’Artagnan’s face, gracing him with a slight smile, “You’ve been very sick. You’re hot because of the fever and probably sore from having been so sick this last week. Do you remember anything of the past few weeks?”

 

d’Artagnan struggled to pull his confusing thoughts together before finally answering, “Sick. You went for a cure,” he swallowed again and Athos helped him take another drink. “Porthos?” he breathed out.

 

Athos motioned with his head, indicating the man snoring softly on the other side of the bed. The young man’s eyes moved to the side and a small grin graced his lips. “Alright?” he asked.

 

“Yes, it’s you who’s had us all worried. Speaking of which, the others would never forgive me if I allowed them to sleep through your first waking moments.” d’Artagnan frowned, confused by Athos’ statement. “Do you think you can stay awake a few minutes longer?” The Gascon nodded slowly, eyelids already growing heavy and Athos had no doubt the boy would soon be asleep again.

 

Athos woke Aramis first and then Porthos, both of whom were incredibly glad to see the young man awake. While Aramis conducted a quick examination, Athos brought broth from the kitchen so they could get something of substance into the young man. While he’d been away, Porthos had filled in the blanks in d’Artagnan’s memory, distracting him from Aramis’ poking and prodding.

 

When Athos returned he looked at Aramis who still sat on the bed, next to the Gascon, and the look he received confirmed that the young man seemed to finally be improving. Aramis took the broth from Athos and swatted d’Artagnan’s hand away when he tried to take the bowl. “We need to get this into you, not have it spilled down your front.” Although the young man seemed inclined to protest, he allowed Aramis to feed him, managing nearly half the bowl before turning his head away.

 

“Are you sure?” Aramis prompted, trying to get the young man to eat a little more. d’Artagnan nodded, lifting a trembling hand to rub his sore chest. Aramis covered the hand with his own, asking, “Does it hurt?”

 

The Gascon nodded, whispering, “Feels like an elephant is sitting on it.”

 

Aramis nodded sympathetically, “That’s the pneumonia. Hopefully you’ll start feeling better from this point forward.” The young man blinked slowly, clearly losing the struggle to stay awake and Aramis pushed him gently back into the pillows at this back. “Sleep now, we’ll wake you later to take more medicine.”

 

The boy’s head lay cushioned in the pillows and his breathing slowed as he drifted off to sleep. Aramis stood and faced his two friends, “This is a positive sign. His fever is still high but hopefully he’s on the mend now.” Porthos grinned broadly and Athos gave a tilt of his head in acknowledgement of his friend’s words. That night, the three men finally managed to rest properly instead of the hours of worry-filled tossing that had marked their previous attempts.

* * *

Three days had passed since d’Artagnan had initially woken, and while he was still feeling sore and short of breath, his fever had been reduced to more of a nuisance rather than anything life-threatening. His three brothers continued to watch over him and refused to leave him alone. When d’Artagnan complained about this fact early in his recovery, the look of anguish on his friends’ faces at the thought of being apart stopped him and made him realize that things must have been far more dire than he’d been led to believe. Recognizing that he’d feel the same if the circumstances had been reversed, he committed to be an obedient patient, even allowing himself to be helped out of bed when needing the chamber pot and eating everything that was placed in front of him.

 

As his health returned, their conversations shifted to the trip back to Paris, which the Gascon fervently hoped would happen sooner rather than later. While he appreciated the Comte’s hospitality, he was eager to put this memory behind him and that was difficult to do while they remained at the chateau. The following morning, Aramis helped d’Artagnan wash and dress and they moved slowly out of the room, Aramis refusing the young man’s attempts to find out where they were going. The trip down the grand staircase was slow and d’Artagnan was breathing heavily by the time they stepped off the last step, but when Aramis brought him through the front doors, the fresh breeze and sunshine made him forget his discomfort.

 

They stood there for a couple of minutes, d’Artagnan relishing the scent of the fresh air and the warmth of the sun on his face. He had little memory of the time when he’d been sick, but knew instinctively that there was a part of him that had been surprised to still be alive. When Aramis felt the fine tremors in d’Artagnan’s body, he pulled the boy down to the courtyard and to a bench that faced the gate. Aramis sat beside him and within minutes the others had joined them, Porthos sitting next to Aramis while Athos took the spot on d’Artagnan’s other side. They sat quietly for a while, enjoying each other’s company before Athos broke the silence. “Aramis feels you may be able to manage the trip back in a couple of days.”

 

A wide grin split the Gascon’s face at the news. “But, we’ll travel slowly, taking frequent stops to rest, and you must tell us right away if you feel ill or tired,” Aramis cautioned.

 

“Treville’s not expecting us for a few days yet, so maybe we can stop at that pond again,” Porthos suggested with a gleam in his eye.

 

d’Artagnan thought back to the trip he and Porthos had shared when travelling to the chateau. The sun had been shining and the weather had been pleasantly warm, the heat of the day tempered by the breeze that moved gently across the land. They had stopped for several hours to enjoy the cool waters of the lake and d’Artagnan had thought it to be a perfect day. Now he would have the chance to share the experience with all three of his brothers and he realized that while the journey had been enjoyable, having all of his friends with him was preferable, and maybe this, instead, would be the perfect day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, reaching the end of a story brings mixed feelings of sadness and accomplishment and I want to thank everyone who read, commented and left kudos. For those of you who like a bit of historical accuracy with your stories, I tried to keep the symptoms our boys endured as close to the truth as possible as they dealt with what we know as dysentery. The cure is also close to the times, although ipecac wasn't really seen widely used until almost 30 years later. That's all for now...


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